6. Antonio
6
Antonio
S tanding in my kitchen, I groggily shuffle toward the cabinet, envisioning a cozy breakfast. I'm really famished. With a half-opened box of cereal in my hand, I reach for a ceramic bowl, take it out, and head to the countertop, where I set it down, ready to pour in some cereal. However, my plans are thwarted as I discover the box is empty.
“Shit!” I toss the box aside and massage my temples.
My eyebrows knit in a frown as I grouch at the realization that I'm fresh out. I head to the fridge to at least help myself to some milk, but I'm fresh out of that as well.
“You gotta be kidding me right now,” I whine to myself.
It's been a week since I returned to Shadow's Bend and, frankly speaking, it hasn't really been easy. No one said that it would be, though. With each day comes a separate challenge, a cruel reminder of why I'm back here. For an entire week, I've fought those challenges and the demotions that came with it.
One thing I figured out to be helpful with my anxiety and depression is the morning runs I engage in everyday. Elias has been quite helpful as well — not that he knows anything about me, though.
Elias Hart loves to jog in the early hours of the morning just like me and recently, we've gotten closer, a lot closer than I had initially thought, actually. He's the one who knows how to start and keep conversation, and these conversations of ours are a part of the very few reasons I'm still sane.
I scan the interior of the fridge to see if there's anything edible in there, but sadly, there isn't, and now I'm wondering how I let my kitchen go dry.
Scratching the back of my head in a mix of anger and disappointment, I shut the fridge and decide that I don't have a choice — I need to go shopping unless I want to starve myself to death.
Leo had told me that cooking for myself and going out to restock my groceries myself would help my state of mind. He must be glad now if he knows I'm faced the challenge of going to the store.
Stepping out of the kitchen, I head back upstairs to grab some cash and my jacket. I open the wardrobe doors. They part smoothly, revealing my collection of jackets neatly hung on hangers. I select a coffee brown one and slip into it.
I glance at the nightstand next to my bed, where my journal is lying open. With gentle steps, I go over and pick it up, skimming through the letters that I've been writing to myself. As I flip through the pages, I notice a couple of half-finished letters I'd written to myself and my ex.
Journaling is another way I escape from this prison. It's a coping mechanism that has actually been quite helpful as well this past week. Documenting my feelings and my failed attempts at getting better have been of great help, and I find solace in the concept of this documentation.
I sigh heavily and toss the journal back on the nightstand. Maybe I'll return to those half-finished letters later, but for now, I have to figure out what to do about my kitchen supplies.
Sighting the keys to my truck on a table by the window, I walk over and snatch them off the surface before going out.
I glance at the burner flip phone in my hand, pissed that I'm forced to live like this, trapped in an era where there's no internet and all this phone does is make calls and send texts. I feel like I'm stuck in the twentieth century.
I'm not allowed to have access to the outside world. No social media, nothing at all to keep me informed about what's going on in the world, and only a few people know about this burner phone. Oh, and by ‘limited’, I mean only Leo and Gabriella.
Heading back downstairs, I leave the house, locking the doors behind me. I'm giving the idea of going out to get my own groceries and try, so Leo better be right. Hopefully, picking up my own groceries and involving myself in the minute details will make me feel better. On my way to the truck, I see Colette’s truck parked outside, and I think maybe she's home.
I can't run into her today. I really don't have the strength to deal with her right now, even though it was fun watching her flame up after I get on her nerves. Ever since our last encounter, I haven't really set eyes on her, per se. Well, I have a couple of times, but all of those times, she made it pretty clear that she was avoiding me. She's still pissed at our last banter, and it's just fun to me, watching her try to ignore me.
Colette's attempts to not get involved with me are so keen that I've only been able to catch glimpses of her since that day. Whenever she sees me, she's always huffing and puffing to get inside her house before I can spend the next two seconds looking at her. For some weird reason, I'm happy whenever she does that.
I shake my head and get into the truck, leaning against the headrest of the driver's seat as I take a deep breath. This is the first time I'm going out into town in the gleam of day, and I'm not just strolling down my street, I'm going to the grocery store.
What are the chances that I'll run into a familiar face who's going to hold me down with lots of personal questions? I am so sure that it'll definitely happen, and this is the reason I never really wanted to go out here in the first place.
I hold on to the steering wheel, my fingers squeezed around it as I try to summon the courage to move. I'm very comfortable in my space, and I love my solitude. It means privacy. Going out to mix with a crowd that I've been trying to avoid for the past week seems like a Herculean task.
Thoughts about staying back are tugging against the fringes of my mind, and all I have to do is give in. It's as simple as that. My stomach rumbles, and I know I can't continue to starve just because I'm not yet ready to step out of my comfort zone. I need to be brave enough to do this. I'll keep an open mind, expecting the worst but hoping for the best.
Come on, man. It's just a simple errand. No big deal.
“Here goes nothing.”
I draw in a deep breath and slot the key into the ignition, twisting gently as the engine comes alive and revs for a while. With my seatbelt strapped on, I press my foot down on the accelerator and drive off.
I nod rhythmically to the song playing on the radio while I drive across town, whooshing past a few landmark buildings that have been there as long as I can remember.
Music has a way of healing the soul, so they say, and they aren't wrong. Even though this wound of mine is taking a lot longer to heal. I sing along to the song, occasionally drumming my fingers against the dashboard as I drive on the lonely road that streaks through a meadow.
Since my journey to the store began, I can count the number of cars I've seen on this same road so far and, ironically, it's quite refreshing. It's a lot different from the busy roads in the city where impatient drivers constantly blare their horns and cuss at each other for reckless driving.
I've had my fair share of the adventure on the roads in the city. A smile lines a corner of my lips as I recount the day when I had snapped at a driver whose car had refused to start after waiting in line for the lights to turn green. His car was directly in front of me, and I was in a hurry. I blasted my horn at him, and instead of him signaling me that his vehicle was refusing to start, he stuck out his hand from the window and gave me the middle finger.
When his car eventually kicked in, and he was already in motion, I sped up and caught up to drive by his side. I wound down the window and returned the gesture before speeding up and driving away. There's nothing on this road to stir up any rage in me, no driver to piss me off or disobey the traffic lights. It's not so bad after all.
I slow down and take a turn down a street, then park my truck by the sidewalk before Dottie's Diner. Dottie’s has been opening since I was a teenager, and it's a diner known for diverse reasons; its good delicacies and Dottie's gossip. The former has always outweighed the latter, and that's why the place still stands today.
I kill the engine and look out toward the diner. Through the floor to ceiling glass windows, I can see the people seated inside and those lined up by the counter. Memories of me going to have lunch here with my buddies flash in my head for a moment.
Unstrapping my seatbelt, I step out of the truck and head to the entrance, push the door back, and then walk inside. Suddenly, I'm hit with a wave of déjà vu. The air still smells the same — the sweet aroma of a mix of several dishes they offer — although the interior decor is a lot better now.
Waitresses in aprons zip between tables, jotting down orders and refilling coffee cups with practiced ease, adding to the lively atmosphere of the diner, just as I remember it. The chatter of customers and their occasional laughs blend with the clinking of silverware and the hiss of the griddle. The diner is still cozy with red vinyl booths lining one side and a row of stool stands in front of the counter.
Roaming my eyes for an empty seat, I notice the booths are occupied by patrons, regulars maybe; some are engrossed in conversations with smiley faces over plates piled with pancakes, others sit alone.
Behind the counter up ahead, I see her, Dottie, engaged in a conversation with some of her customers. More like gossiping with them.
She's older now compared to ten years ago when I was still a teenager, and she was way younger with two kids around the ages of two and three. Back then, she was such a huge gossip, and the whole town knew her for that.
Dottie still can't seem to put a lock on her mouth as she's engrossed in whatever tale she's telling those customers of hers.
“I'm telling you, Sheriff Reeds still does not know who it is.” She demonstrates dramatically.
Classic Dottie.
Who might she be referring to?
I wonder what she's talking about, just out of curiosity, because the look on her audience’s faces is palpable at how fascinated they are by her story.
“Can I tell you what I believe?” she leans closer with a hushed tone. The question is clearly rhetorical because she tells them, anyway. I listen attentively.
“I think the Sheriff is pissed off because he hasn't been able to apprehend who it is. I think he has a beef with them, you know…” She laughs, and they do too.
“Whoever they are, they're good at hiding and covering their tracks,” one of the female customers chime in.
“Yeah…and the art is superb as well,” another says.
“Careful, Sheriff Reed mustn't hear you taking their side,” Dottie jokes, and they laugh again.
I've heard people talking about the mysterious street artist during my morning runs. It's like there's an outlaw on the loose who's going around painting on abandoned buildings, abandoned cars, and basically anything with a surface that can be drawn upon.
From the whispers I've heard so far, it seems like the only person with a problem with this vigilante artist is Sheriff Reed.
Why am I not surprised? The rest of the town finds the artist's work impressive, and a vast majority of them joke about the Sheriff hasn't caught them yet.
I've known Reed since I was a teenager, and I know how much he loves to uphold the law and maintain order. He's a man who is very passionate about keeping the town safe. I've always admired that part of him, the other part…not so much.
Suddenly, I now understand why most of the people I've overheard talking about the mysterious street artist and the Sheriff love the idea of his frustrations.
I scoff, subtly shaking my head, and just as I'm about to take a step forward, a teenage girl comes over to me with a smile.
“Hi,” she greets warmly, with a pen and a notepad in her hands.
I look at her, and we lock eyes. She seems really familiar, and I can tell by the way she is squinting at me she thinks I look familiar as well.
Then it hits me. The resemblance is striking. She's Dottie's daughter. She's changed a lot since the last time I saw her — of course, she's a teenager now, and she's obviously working in her mom's diner.
Her lips look like she is going to talk as she wears a look on her face that says she finally remembers why I look so familiar. But before she can find her words, her mom beats her to it.
“My, oh my!” Dottie's voice crackles in the air, drawing attention to herself.
“Uh-oh, here we go,” the girl says under her breath as she turns to her mother, who's being really dramatic with her expression as she looks at me.
“I'll be damned… Isn't that the younger Amato brother?” she asks.
I wave at her.
“It's Antonio, isn't it?” She grins widely.
“Hello, Mrs. Jenkins,” I give her a faint smile.
She goes around the counter and soon materializes before me.
“It is you,” she says and embraces me. “Goodness boy! How long has it been? Look at you, all grown up!” Dottie's eyes size me up.
Again. Dramatic.
Her daughter almost blows a raspberry, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. The kid is obviously embarrassed by her mother's melodrama. She walks away to another customer, leaving me to deal with Dottie all by myself.
“It's nice to see your diner is still up and running,” I indulge her.
“Oh, what can I say?” She blushes, trying to be modest. “Why didn't you say hello when you came in?”
“You were busy, and I didn't want to disturb you,” I reply.
“Nonsense!” she debunks my excuse. “Dottie always has time for old acquaintances,” she continues. “And I was just telling them about the mysterious street artist in town, you know.” She giggles, and covering one side of her mouth with her hand, she whispers. “The one keeping Sheriff Reed on his toes.”
I laugh lightly.
“For some time now, buildings in the town have been coming alive with street art and believe me, the art is so good.” She pauses as if to think. “It's disturbing and sorrowful sometimes, but it's fantastic.” Dottie cocks her head at me. “Have you seen any of the paintings?”
I chuckle to myself.
“No…unfortunately not.”
She's about to say something when her attention is called upon behind the counter. Dottie excuses herself and pleads with me to let her go attend to what needs her attention.
Relieved that I'm finally free, I tell her it's fine. She thanks me and rushes away.
“Oh, and…welcome back to Shadow's Bend, Antonio,” she calls back.
I smile and find a vacant seat where I sit and order my breakfast.
_________
After having my breakfast at Dottie's, I continue with my shopping in a nearby mall and while at it, I can't help but wonder who this mysterious street artist is, and why the town's talking about their work.
As I walk down the candy aisle, I see a newspaper stand at a corner and head over there. There's a photo of a painting on a wall on the front page of one paper that captivates my attention.
I pick it up and stare at the painting; it's a beautiful woman with hallowed eyes and pale skin. There is something about that painting that gives me the creeps. The woman in the painting is gorgeous but seems sad. The image gives off a horrible aura that reminds me of my life.
Dottie was right. This is sorrowful and disturbing.
“Good art,” a voice speaks beside me.
I turn to face the speaker.
“But it still doesn't change the fact that they're destroying public property.” It's Sheriff Reed.
He's a lot older, and I almost didn't recognize him with the beard, but I can't forget the sound of that voice. He was the Sheriff before I left the town, and apparently he still is. He's standing before me in his uniform that commands respect.
“Hello, young Amato.”
“Hi, Sheriff,” I respond.
“You like the painting?” he asks.
“It's…” I glance at it. “It's great. People say that you've been chasing down the artist.”
“Yes, I have. Whether the art is good, it doesn't change the fact that it's a defamation of public property, and that's still a petty crime.”
“Petty crime,” I say, bringing his attention to the adjective.
“Petty, huge…a crime is a crime, nonetheless.”
“Well, it's a good thing that these are the only crimes you have to worry about in Shadow's Bend.”
“Are you saying that I don't have work to do?” He frowns.
“No, no…that's not what I meant,” the words come out defensively. “I'm saying that it's a good thing that there aren't serious crimes here. It means that the town is safe.”
“Hmm.” Sheriff Reed knits his brows, squinting at me. “Watch yourself, boy.” He whistles and walks away.
I slap my forehead because I always get into trouble with Reed, especially when I was younger, since I used to be a bit of a troublemaker. This one time, Reed actually caught me smoking, and I guess that's the day his dislike for me started.
I take one last look at that painting and appreciate the art, even though I don't like the way it's making me feel.
Taking my groceries with me, I head back to my truck and stack them into the backseat. While I'm walking over to the driver's seat, my phone rings, and I squint at the number, which isn't Leo nor Gabby.
Peering closely at it, I suddenly recognize it and excitedly answer.
“Hey, Henry!” I open the door and get inside.
“Oh, come on Antonio! You just had to ruin this for me, didn't you?” Henry grouches on the other line.
“What do you mean?” I laugh.
“I wanted to prank you first, man.”
“Well, jokes on you.” I can't stop smiling. Finally, I'm talking to someone other than my brother or his wife. “You forget, I memorized your number.”
“Yeah…” he drawls lazily.
“It's so nice to hear your voice, man,” I confess, starting the engine and driving home.
“Same here, man. How are you doing, though?”
“I’m…I'm trying to be fine,” I immediately change the subject. “Wait. How were you able to convince Leo to give you this number?”
“It wasn't easy. I had to beg him for one entire week. One freaking week before he finally budged.”
I scoff. Classic Leo.
“Leo might be strict with this recovery thing, but trust me…he's a great big brother.”
I massage my eyeballs.
“I know, Henry. But it's stifling sometimes, you know? Bro, I couldn't even talk to my best friend. Leo took it a little too far,” I complain.
“Would you blame him?”
I know where Henry is going with this, and I'm getting pissed.
“You almost died, Antonio, and you're the only sibling he has left — of course it's to be expected of him.”
“Why do you all think I end my life?” I try not to snap at him.
“That's not what I'm saying…”
“I didn't do it on purpose,” I cut him off. “I got high, and things just got out of control,” I explain.
Henry sighs on the other line.
“I was really worried about you, man. We all were.”
“I get it, okay. I fucked up. But listen, I'm trying to make things work again. I'm trying to be better.”
“I know you can be,” his voice is so encouraging.
I feel so ashamed about my drug addiction and all the pain that I've caused for those around me. I want to be better, and I'm trying my best to do so.
“I'll get better, Henry,” I say to him. “I'll focus on my recovery.”
“I trust you, man. You just do what you have to do.”
I sigh and nod my head.
“I have to go now, Antonio. We'll talk some other time.”
“Okay, man. Thanks for reaching out. I appreciate it.”
“Take care, buddy.”
“Yeah, you too.”
He hangs up the phone.
It feels good hearing from him again after all this time. And he was right about my brother's love. I owe it to them and to myself to be better.
I park the truck and step out to get the groceries from the backseat. I stop for a second to admire Colette while she's busy washing her truck in her driveway. My heart skips as I feel something crack open inside me, but I'm too upset to dwell on anything right now.
With my groceries in my hand, I head into the house. I put the groceries away and decide to go shower and clear my head.