Page 4 of Smuggler’s Cove (Twin Lights #1)
Chapter Two
Jackson
J ackson Taylor was born two years after his father came back from World War II.
He was too young to notice his father’s sullen moods, but by the time Jackson was three, he became aware of the loud arguments, the tears, and the slamming doors.
It was a regular occurrence. For Jackson, he had no way of knowing it wasn’t normal.
A year later, when his younger brother Kirby was born, the noise got louder, the tears more like a river, and the slamming turned into holes being punched in the walls.
It took a few more years before Mrs. Rita Taylor packed her bags and left town.
* * *
Six-year-old Jackson sat near the window on the bus.
His mother was next to him, with his two-year-old brother on her lap.
He watched the scenery change from paved sidewalks to trees and more trees.
The bus made occasional stops, and travelers got off and on.
He didn’t know how long they had been on the bus, but he knew he had to go to the bathroom.
He squirmed in his seat as his mother patted his hand and asked him to hold it for just a little longer.
She got up from where she was sitting, with her infant in her arms, and approached the driver.
“Will we be stopping at a restroom area soon? My son needs to use the facilities.”
The driver pulled over to the side of the road. “This is the closest thing.” He pointed to a mound of brush along the highway.
Rita blinked in horror. “But I can’t let him do that.”
“Sorry, but there isn’t a gas station for another half hour or so.”
Rita was stunned and embarrassed. She looked around at the rest of the passengers.
There were only two left. An older woman got up from her seat and offered, “Here. I’ll hold onto the little one while you take the boy outside.
” Rita had to put her trust in a total stranger.
She was grateful that Kirby was a happy toddler, and that people were kind.
“Thank you so much.” She gave Kirby’s hand to the compassionate lady and motioned for Jackson to come with her. The two stepped off the bus, and Rita brought Jackson to the other side of the bush for some scant privacy.
Jackson began to whine. “But I don’t want to go pee-pee here!”
“Sweetheart, it’s the only place you can go now.” But before Jackson could complete the process, he wet his pants and began to wail.
“Jackson, honey. Please. Mommy will get you a dry pair of pants.” She waved toward the driver. “Can you please bring my suitcase out here?”
The driver was willing to oblige. It was clear this wasn’t his first kid-who-peed-his-pants rodeo, and he brought the luggage to the woman who was standing behind a bush with her distressed child.
Rita was mortified. She really hadn’t planned her escape very well, but at the time, she didn’t think there were any other options.
Get out or get punched. She thanked the driver profusely, opened the valise, and pulled out a fresh pair of underwear and pants for Jackson.
A few minutes later, they were back on the bus.
Kirby was back on his mother’s lap, and they were on their way.
Jackson was still red-faced from the embarrassment, and suspected everyone knew what had happened. That was one memory that stayed with him for the rest of his life.
About half an hour later, the bus pulled in front of a country store.
Behind it were fields of corn. The driver opened the door and addressed the disquieted family: “Here you go.” He got up from his seat and helped Rita with her suitcase and carry-on.
“Good luck to you, ma’am.” The driver had been around enough people to know when someone was not going on a fun family vacation.
A lady who resembled Rita hurried toward them. “Rita! Are you okay?” she said in huffs.
“Better now.” Rita turned to her sister, Betty, and gave her a quick hug. Then she placed her hands on her son’s shoulders. “Betty, you remember Jackson. And this here is Kirby.”
“Jackson, you have gotten so tall since the last time I saw you!” Considering she hadn’t seen her nephew since he was three, it wasn’t an exaggeration.
Jackson didn’t know what to make of this situation. One thing was for certain, it would be an exceptionally long walk home.
The sprawling fields and almost deserted highway were vastly different from the concrete and rows of houses he was used to. His mother let him play in their backyard, which was surrounded by a chain-link fence. That was all he knew of the outdoors. This place was very different.
Aunt Betty lifted the suitcase, took Jackson’s hand, and walked them to her shiny green Oldsmobile sedan.
Jackson was astute enough to realize it was much nicer than the car they had at home.
Jackson climbed into the back seat with Kirby, his mother in front with Aunt Betty.
They drove past more fields and groves of trees for several minutes until they came upon a long gravel driveway.
Jackson had his face pressed to the window.
“Where are we?” he said, half in awe and half in doubt.
“We’re at my house,” Aunt Betty said, as she glanced into the rearview mirror.
“Is that a cow?” Jackson asked, recalling a picture of one in a book.
“It sure is,” Betty replied. “We live on a farm.”
“With chickens?” Jackson became more interested.
“Yes, chickens. We even have a small pond in the back where you can fish.”
“Fish?” Jackson asked.
“Yes, fish. Has your father ever taken you fishing?” Betty asked innocently.
Jackson shook his head, then said, “No.” His father barely did anything with him.
His father would go to work in the morning and come home smelling stinky just before dinner.
Jackson didn’t know what the odor was until he heard his mother complain that he “stunk of booze.” Jackson didn’t know what booze was, but he knew it made his father mean, and his mother sad.
Aunt Betty seemed like a nice lady. She showed Jackson to a room down the hall. “This is where you and Kirby will be staying. Your mom will be right across the way.”
Jackson looked around the sparse room. There was a trundle bed, a small dresser, and a rocking chair. Betty showed Jackson how the bed worked. “You pull the bottom out, and now you have two beds. One for you, and one for your brother.”
Rita’s room had a little more flair with twin beds, a double dresser, an armoire, and a vanity. “This is the official guest room,” Betty said as she switched on the overhead light.
“Thank you, Betty. You are a life saver.” Rita wasn’t far from wrong.
“Uncle George and I stay upstairs, so you will have some privacy,” Betty announced. “I’ll let you freshen up before dinner. Uncle George should be back soon.”
“Aunt Betty?” Jackson got her attention. “What kind of farm is this?”
“Chickens and corn.” She smiled. “You can help Uncle George get some fresh eggs for breakfast. How does that sound?”
Jackson shrugged. He had no idea how to get eggs from a chicken.
Rita took a deep breath and commented, “Something smells delicious.”
“It’s freshly baked chicken pot pie. It has become one of my favorites. I finally figured out how to make a flaky crust.” Betty chuckled.
Jackson was beginning to think that everything was going to be okay.
* * *
Rita and Betty were raised in Paterson, New Jersey. Rita met Jackson’s father after the war. Enlistees were praised and lauded as they arrived back in the States. She saw him celebrating in a pub with some of his fellow military comrades. He was charming and nice-looking. And he was in uniform.
Within three months, he was discharged and got a job working for the railroad. After a year of dating, he decided it was time he took a wife, and time for Rita to marry. And so, they did. Two years later their first child, Jackson, Jr., was born.
Rita had no idea the man had a temper. A bad one.
Even though they dated for a year, it was casual.
No long vacations or weekends. If it were Saturday night, Rita and Jackson would go to a dance or a movie.
There were no deep conversations. Ever. In retrospect, they barely knew each other before they got married.
It didn’t take long for the Mr. Hyde version of the charming Jackson Taylor to show his hideous side after consuming copious amounts of liquor. There was also a problem of some backroom gambling at the pub. Money was a constant issue.
Known as “J.T.” to his friends, Jackson Taylor was digging himself deeper into a hole that seemed almost impossible to get out of. You didn’t have to be a psychic to see that the future was not looking good for any of them.
Now Rita was on the lam with her two boys. She knew she was taking a substantial risk leaving her husband and running away, but her safety and the safety of her children was paramount.
By the second day, the family began to settle in at the farm. There was plenty of outdoor space for Jackson to kick a ball around, and Uncle George put together a makeshift fence so the kids wouldn’t wander off.
There had been no communication between J.T.
and Rita. He hadn’t called looking for her, and she didn’t want him to know where she was.
It wasn’t until noon on the third day when the heavy black phone in the dining area rang.
It was the police. They were looking for Mrs. Jackson Taylor.
The man explained they got Betty’s name from one of Rita’s neighbors, Lydia Foster. Betty handed the phone to her sister.
“Mrs. Taylor, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your husband was in a wreck last night, more like the wee hours of the morning. He is in the hospital.”
Rita began to shake. “What happened?”
Betty scurried to her side.
“He was intoxicated and slammed into a bulkhead.”
Rita didn’t know what to say or do. “How is he?” creaked out of her mouth.