Ashes Remain

by Alethea Stauron

  and

  he wants to speak with her.

  She shifts her eyes toward Drake. Her heart is pounding from approaching trouble. Still asleep. Josephine pulls into her driveway and nearly around the back, leaving plenty of distance for someone to park their loud vehicle further away. She leaves the truck running and sneaks out. The rumble grows louder down blacktop.

  Her anxious eyes glimpse back at her parked vehicle and turns as Drake’s car crunches gravel from her driveway beneath its wheels. David pops out of Drake’s car. Barely parked. “Little sis.” He takes a couple steps toward her, “I have to talk to you.”

  At that moment, her passenger door is kicked open from beside the house. She jerks her head back. The weight of her passenger-side door closes in on itself from Drake being too dazed in his current state to open it properly.

  “I have to talk to you, Josephine,” David reaches for her, “He’s not —

  A roaring engine interrupts David. His father pulls the oversized truck halfway over grass and gravel, flattening a water bucket that once held a welcome sign and half the wildflowers along one side of her driveway. David’s shoulders sink, “Oh, dad.”

  Drake kicks the door once more, followed by whining, “Jojo…” hanging his leg out from a lying position, keeping it open, “Help me up!”

  Josephine panics, shaking her head for David to remain quiet, “You have to go —

  “Don’t leave me in here,” Drake moaned his interuption.

  David looks over her shoulder with a large amount of shock in his expression, “Oh… my… God.” His eyes trailed down toward her, “Is that him? What are you —

  “I can’t speak to you anymore.” Her hands push against his chest, “Go now.”

  “Help me up,” Drake’s voice raises, “Jojo!”

  David’s father walks over toward Josephine and David. She pushes harder, “Go away, David,” pressing one last time as hard as she can, “…before he calls the cops and you go to jail.”

  David’s lips gape open, “Please?” His dad takes his arm.

  “What’s going on,” Drake shouted from the truck.

  “Let’s go, son.” David’s father tugs him away from her. “We can’t have any trouble,” waving a hand toward Josephine, “We’re leaving now.” He escorts David toward their truck. “We won’t bother y’all.”

  David is unable to turn his head from her. He’s watching as she turns her back toward him. “Sister.” His lips quivered as he left. And mournfully swallowed his goodbye all the way down the road. He’s gone. David is gone.

  Safe… but gone.

  Josephine stands, sobbing into her hands. In the driveway until the sound of an over broadcasted engine has cleared the air. Chalky white dust is left settling down. “Jojo, help me,” Drake’s foot is swinging. He’s using large kicks, trying to elevate himself up.

  “I’m coming.” She wipes dusty tears from her face, and tends to the only promise she knows she can keep.

  Josephine meets her new patient’s demands. She’s hardly had a moment of rest since bringing him home from the hospital, and squats on a step to wipe her brow. “I just need a quick rest after helping him up those steps.” But something hard and heavy drags down her pocket, clunking against the step. Her phone. She presses a button, but… “Dead.”

  Josephine connects the phone in her kitchen, and grabs a water bottle for Drake’s next round of pills. Her phone charges enough for the screen to light up. She pulls ground beef from the freezer and swings cupboard doors open, finding pasta and marinara. The phone starts buzzing and chiming dings every few seconds. She glances down. Missed calls. Messages. Too many to count. And almost too scared to reply. “I’m not even…” she jiggles her head, erasing the headache with a finger. Erased with one swipe. She soon treads upstairs, carrying a bottle of water and a snack for his future dose. Her phone tolls in the kitchen every few seconds to catch up for lost time before a bad connection takes over the area again.

  A few feet from the doorway, Drake calls out, “Who’s that? You can’t talk to them. Make them shut up,” he moans, “I can’t handle that dinging.”

  “It’s nobody.” She places his water bottle with cheese and crackers down, “I’m erasing them. They’re all asking the same question. Wanting to know if you’re okay.”

  “That’s none of their business.” His head pops up, “They’ll tell David if you speak to them.” He threatens standing to his feet, rolling toward the side of the bed. “I gotta call the cops.”

  Her eyes expand, “No! It’s okay,” placing her hand over him, begging. Pleading, “I’m not talking to them. I’m erasing the messages.”

  “Show me…” soggy eyes stare at her, “or grab my phone.”

  She slides her foot back and tilts her head, “You don’t believe me?”

  “Have you spoken to him since the party,” gazing straight at her. He stretches his hand toward the dresser, “Hand… me… my phone.”

  She runs downstairs, and disconnects her phone. She shows it to him and swiftly swipes through, erasing messages, posts, and emails. “See? I made a promise. They’re old messages because my phone went dead.”

  Drake plops his head down and covers his face with one arm. He pushes out a sob, “I’m sorry you had to do that.” Only stopping his loud bawling, so he can sniffle a dry nose, “I’m so scared. You broke your promise before. It almost got me killed.”

  “I made a promise,” lowering her hand to rub his shoulder, “I hope you can trust me again.”

  Drake moves sideways, holding his casted arm away and whimpering. “Can you massage my back? Those hospital beds hurt and it’s making the pain worse.” Josephine sits with him until he drifts to sleep. No sooner does she shut the door and her phone rings. She silences the singing alarm before Drake can ask for his phone again. She peeps her head through his door.

  He’s asleep.

  ◆◆◆

  She exhales and walks across the loft, gazing down at her phone. A silent, Bishop Jones, brightly lights across the screen. “Hello, Father Jones,” mildly whispered, entering her bedroom. She connects a portable charger from the rolltop. “How are you doing?”

  “Josephine,” his voice is as calm as a dove’s song. Not chipper and upbeat, but mellow and solemn, “I have some bad news.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Josephine, I’m afraid that someone has broken into the house this last weekend.”

  She inhales, “Are you okay?”

  “It all happened while I was gone for a special Lent service.” He pauses and breathes a deep sigh. He continues patiently, “The police… Josephine, the police said there were no signs of forced entry. No windows were broken and the back door was left unlocked.”

  “What? Did they take anything?”

  “Yes, Josephine. They stole my diamond cufflinks and some other jewelry. But something far worse. They took the Gaelic communion cups your dad’s family had entrusted me with.” Josephine’s mind can almost see Bishop Jones. His forehead dipping into his palms. “I know they’re just communion cups, but relics are priceless.”

  She drops at the end of her bed.

  He continues, “It won’t damage the church, and it’ll be hard for something like that to be resold — unnoticed anyway. But that’s not what bothers me.”

  “What else did they take?”

  “I don’t keep fancy things. You know this. Something the police told me… it just keeps bothering me. So much that I can’t sleep. That’s why I wanna talk to you.”

  “What is it,” she asked.

  “I was told, whoever broke in had a key, or I left the door unlocked.”

  “Are you saying, somebody has another key to your house?”

  Bishop Jones sing-songs his voice higher, “I know,” as if she can see his eyebrows lift while saying it. “Been bothering me how they got in through that door.” He blows out his next question from a deep breath, “Anyway, I was calling to ask if anyone might have access
to my renter keys?”

  She gazes at the rolltop, skipping a few steps toward it. “Let me see if my dad left a log, or a sign off sheet for the landscaping and maintenance crews he’d use.” She fingers through some papers, shuffling a few files over.

  Bishop Jones remains composed. His voice redirects her, “I was just curious, Josephine. You don’t have to do all that. Come to think of it, there might be something in that journal your dad had. I’d see him jot in it every now and then.”

  “I’m looking through his old desk right now,” she says, “I can call you back.”

  “What’s done is done. God always provides. Only prayer and the police can take it from here. I’ve already changed the locks to be sure.” His optimism slightly elevates her mood, “I’ll bring the spare sometime before Easter. You know… when I have a chance.”

  “That’ll be just fine, Father Jones.”

  “Call me, brother.”

  She smiles and is fighting tears, “You have no idea…” gathering her emotions for half a moment, “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that right now,” she paused, “Brother.”

  “Well,” spoken softly, “I’ll let you know when I’ll be dropping by.”

  “No rush. I hope you recover everything.”

  “They’re just things, Josephine. This too shall pass.”

  Josephine takes on the role of makeshift nurse for a week. “Jojo,” Drake calls, “… can you grab me a towel,” she overheard his voice call out from the bathroom above her.

  “There’s some up there.” She stares at a basket of folded clothing in the laundry area. “I just restocked it.”

  Lucius reels up at Artie. And Artie nods, “Yeah. I know. He’s trying again.” He exhaled quietly, “He sees the towels hanging.”

  “I don’t see any.” Drake sloshes water from the tub as he pulls back the curtain, “Can you come in here and help me?”

  “Should be two on the rack,” hollered up toward his intentionally cracked bathroom door. “If it was a snake, it would bite you.”

  Curtain rings slide shut with a loud yank. “Fine,” he snapped, “I’ll do it myself.”

  Josephine stands outside the door, helping to close indecency for him. She says, “They’re less than two feet from the tub. Oh… and I need to go to the store. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Wait!” He trundles from bathwater, dripping soap suds across tile. Drake swings the door toward him, offering part of his nakedness to show.

  She’s several steps down. Her vision is blocked and safe from any exposure, partly covered with loft flooring in her line of sight. “Oh, Drake,” her head jerks down, “I almost see you. Shut the—

  “Can you get my prescriptions. I’m almost out,” acting as if he didn’t recognize indecency.

  She shields half her face, “Umm… that’s what I’m doing while I pick up groceries. We’re out of everything,” jogging her uncomfortable wincing downstairs. “I’ll be a little while. Don’t forget you can’t get that cast wet.”

  ◆◆◆

  While she’s gone, Drake enters her bedroom, hissing at Leo racing under her bed. “Stupid cat,” and closes the door. He places keys back in their spot of a dark cubbyhole, and his eyes roam the rolltop. “What is all this,” investigating paperwork with only five fingers. File after file, he discovers, “Another banking account,” spreading sheets and stubs from different folders, “Investor contracts…” curling his nose, “… in China?” Many forms are written in languages he’s less than qualified to recognize, mistaking Cantonese or Mandarin as all general Chinese. He picks up Arabic forms and letters, “What is this? Korean?” He stuffs them back into his pile of unreadable. “She don’t speak this stuff.” Aggravated and shaking his jaw, he re-piles the stack. To his left, his sinking eyes see two handles. “What’s in these?” He slides out the first drawer. “Bingo…” English files open in his grasp, “Some’n I can read.”

  Lines of money transfers start adding up, lifting his cheeks from a growing smile. “This girl is loaded.” Every sleeve of money transfer is stacked behind an official seal. Hidden by a brand. He reads one of the seals, “Army? But…” thumbing through hidden slips, “pottery shop? What’s this bull?” He glides paperwork back into their original slots, hoping the next drawer will lead to actual treasure. “I need plain old English.”

  Drake yanks the handle, but it snaps back. “Dammit,” shaking his pinched finger, “Thing’s locked.” Under the rolltop, a locking mechanism taunts him. A flat keyhole. He huffs and searches every cubbyhole for the rolltop key.

  Nothing.

  Rising irritation grows with every drawer, closet he shuffles through, or behind books, looking everywhere without prize. He hunches over her dresser, eyeing the reflection of the rolltop cabinet. He balls a fist, “Stupid drawer,” banging over the dresser several times.

  Clink

  Like a musical note played for him. A key from over the mirror bounces off to an area in front of him. The key tumbles between two jewelry boxes and Josephine’s perfume, landing perfectly in his sight. “No way.” He glances at his bruised up and stitched reflection, “My lucky day.”

  Just as easy as the Alamo Heights lock, metal glides and unlocks the drawer. He reads labels over every folder and chooses one, balancing the folder over his cast, “Syrian church…” almost choking from what he sees, “opened 2008. What the hell is this?” Moving several pages, he reads a budget form. “Next ten years allowance: $1.7 million. What in the crap is this nonsense?”

  He quickly retrieves a different form, “Dubai church opened 2002. Budget for next ten years allowance: $8.2 million. What in the hell? These people are crazy rich — just throwing money away.” Drake slams the drawer, gawking at the old brass handle. “She’s got money she doesn’t even know she has.” He locks the drawer and glances over — her passport leers history back at him.

  Drake opens a protective white leather case, flipping through several pages of her passport. Stamps. Lots of stamps from various places pop out at him. “Or, maybe she does know how to get her hands on it. She’s been to most of these places.”

  With one arm, he tidies his mess, and leaves her wing of the loft. “I just found a gourmet meal ticket.” And enters his room, “But I gotta get rid of her, if she won’t cooperate.” He grasps downward, re-situating his pants. “I’ll give her mercy with one more chance. Wouldn’t mind wearing a ring, if I had to wake up to that every morning. Maybe buy me a couple dames on the side every now and then.” His hand and cast flare up with his neck tilting like catching rain, “Ahh. Freedom of money.”

  Drake dials a number on his phone, pinching carpet with his toes and hunching from the edge of the bed. Toes flips the end of a rug while he waits on the line to finally connect. He breathes deeply, hoping he doesn’t get cut off again as the third ring finishes.

  The phone clicks with a brief silence. “Only…” a voice sternly said, “good news, Drake.”

  “I’m get’n it done. I’m just waiting to cash in. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “You owe me a lot of money. I’m losing patience and usual business with your disappearance. You’re my property.”

  “It’s all about to fall in my lap,” Drake said.

  “Whatever scam you’re pulling… if I’m not paid for what I’ve already lost, you’re gonna wish you’d never met me.”

  “I have an amount piling right now.” Drake’s muscles start tensing, “I can get the rest real soon. I told you… I’m good for it.”

  “Those are words… D. They’re not worth a damn to me. I want my hundred grand by the next time I—

  “Wait —

  “You’ll be deep swimming at the bottom of the San Antonio river. Catch what I’m saying, dick?”

  Drake’s head hangs, “Mr. Estevez, sir —

  “Formality, Drake? We’re beyond this right now. I’m not your friend.”

  “But…” Drake swallowed, “That’s more than what I owe. You’re reaching i
n the dark.” Drakes lips curled, fighting tension. “I’m worth nothing dead. I’m getting it.” He snaps, “We know each other. Don’t treat me like one of your goons. You forgot I only owe fifty. And I paid it off last time. Nothing I can’t handle and practically have it in hand right now.”

  Mr. Estevez says, “I know what you owe. I know what everyone owes. They pay me without disappearing. By the end of this week, they’ll be breathing — you won’t.”

  “You don’t even know where I’m at. I’ll get you your money and this’ll be all old news between us.”

  “You think I can’t track your phone after this call? You must be a fool to think you can hide and come back into my good graces. You say old news between us… after what you’ve done?” Mr. Estevez blows a deep breath across the line. His voice changes with the subject, “Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “My office. I know it was you that night. The thing disappeared when you did.”

  “What are you talking about,” Drake asked.

  “In my desk. The one you liked with the silencer on it.” His voice grumbles with a snap, “I want it back!”

  “Mr. E…” Drake reels in the conversation, “I ain’t being blamed for any more than what I owe. I’ll get your money.”

  And he disconnects.

  Blood rushes deafness through Drakes ears. A quiet profanity slides from his tongue, and the only thing stomping out silence of a darkened room. His grip lightens and drops the phone from his hand onto the floor. Drake stares at indirect reflections bouncing from his phone case. “He’s gonna track me.” His arm swoops down, clutching the phone and pulling it apart. He chunks it in his top drawer. “This changes my plans. Gonna have to make money from her before getting my hands on the rest.” He races downstairs and immediately heads toward the study. A fine assortment is glinting back. Fabricated for every size game in the area. From double-barreled to pellets. Each barrel and handle placed fondly with a polished shine on its assigned rack. He reaches, only to realize the case is locked. “Patience,” he tells himself, “I’ll get rid of her. Then, I’ll find a key.”