by Meany, John
***
Now, as Troy sat behind the wheel of his Subaru, the world seemed to be filled with an icy silence.
What was he supposed to do?
When Troy had told Ashley that he loved her, he had been telling her the truth. He really believed that he did. Now she hated him. Now she did not want him in her life anymore. It was so hard to accept.
Images of Ashley poured relentlessly through Troy’s mind. Particularly fond memories of her smiling face just before they would kiss. He also kept remembering how happy they would be walking around, pushing the baby in her stroller. To Troy, it had almost felt as if he and Ashley were husband and wife.
On the way to his apartment, he came within one digit of calling her, before losing his nerve. Troy did not know what to say. He could picture Ashley crying. He did not like knowing that he had hurt her. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He never should have started dating Ashley, when technically; he was still with Sarah.
To distract himself, Troy turned on the car radio.
You don’t love me. You feel sorry for me. For me and the baby.
CHAPTER 47
At the A&P liquor store, Ashley found what she was looking for, and then carried her purchases up to the register.
“Is that it?” the cashier asked, picking up the bottle of Seagram’s vodka, and then scanning the price. Rather than get wine coolers to chase the booze down, Ashley had decided to buy a 64 ounce Coke.
“No. I also need a carton of Marlboro Lights.”
The liquor store employee, a college-aged male in a Bob Marley T-shirt, turned around to check through the different brands. “Winston no. Virginal Slims. Salem. Marlboro Lights.”
“Thank you. And a couple of packs of matches if you don‘t mind.”
“You’ve got it.”
After paying, Ashley hurried out to her car, where, under the driver‘s seat, she found a week-old Taco Bell cup-a big one with the lid and straw still attached. She quickly filled it with half soda and half vodka.
To conceal her devious activity, Ashley pulled down her sun visor. Then she grabbed the big sketch pad that lay beside her, and with a charcoal pencil, she began to draw.
***
It was now dusk.
Although Ashley had lost track of time, she estimated that she had been loitering in the A&P parking lot drinking and sketching for well over an hour.
She desperately wanted to call Troy and tell him off some more. On the dashboard her cell phone seemed to posses a compelling force that kept tempting her hand. It was only with great effort that prevented Ashley from reaching for it.
Why had Troy deceived her? His interest in Ashley had seemed so genuine. What an actor he must be. Boy, did he have her fooled. He could have won an academy award.
After taking another grimacing sip of vodka and soda, Ashley gazed into the rearview mirror. She did not have her sunglasses on and saw that her blue eyes were bloodshot. Her lipstick was also smeared.
Suddenly her reflection whispered, ASHLEY, YOU CAN’T MAKE SOMEONE LOVE YOU. THEY EITHER DO OR THEY DON’T.
“So you don’t think Troy cared?”
WOULD SOMEONE WHO CARED LIE THE WAY HE DID? HE PLAYED YOU. STOP THINKING OF HIM. IT IS WHAT IT IS.
Ashley frowned. While attempting to light a cigarette, she spilled some of her drink. It went all over her lap and onto part of the seat.
“Shit!” she muttered angrily. “Nice going, you dumb sloshed idiot. Now look what you did.” Ashley opened the glove compartment and removed a stack of Kleenex. Then she did the best she could to clean herself as well as the upholstery.
***
Eventually, when she chose to head home, Ashley closed her sketch pad, started the car, and then cautiously merged onto the highway. Up the road, perhaps a quarter of mile, she heard a siren.
Sipping from her straw, Ashley peeked in the rearview and spotted the cop coming toward her fast and furious, his dome light flashing. Before veering off to the side of the street, Ashley slid the bottle of Seagram’s underneath the passenger seat.
Then she dumped what was left in the Taco Bell cup out the window, the straw and lid went flying. She approximated that the police car was a few hundred feet behind her.
Ashley was so frightened the cop would smell the booze; she jammed nearly an entire roll of peppermint Certs into her mouth. Rather than suck on the mints, she chewed them, as if she were eating crunchy cereal.
“What did I do wrong?” she whispered to herself, still staring over her shoulder. “Why is this cop pulling me over? I can’t believe this. What am I gonna do if I lose my license, I’ll be screwed?”
CHAPTER 48
Troy couldn’t take it.
He couldn’t bear the pain and confusion that was putting his mind through hell.
He had to convince Ashley that there really was an important place in his heart for her. He couldn’t let it end this way. If he did, he suspected he’d likely regret it. He did not want another situation like Naomi, always wondering what might have been.
Therefore, after exiting the shopping center, he elected to drive to Ashley’s house. Unfortunately, when he got there, he did not see her car. Only her mother’s minivan was there.
“Do you know where she is?” He stood nervously on the front porch.
“No Troy, I’m sorry, I don‘t,” Claire Whittaker told him. She had her reading glasses on and seemed to be engrossed in whatever she had been doing on her computer. “I haven’t seen my daughter since early this morning.”
“That’s odd.” He couldn‘t figure out where Ashley could possibly be. “I thought for sure she’d be home from work by now.”
“Nope. Not yet.” Smiling, Claire respectfully pushed the screen door open. “Would you like to come in and wait? Maybe stick around for dinner. We’re having London broil with sautéed onions and mushrooms. And for dessert, I made tapioca pudding.”
“Sounds tempting.” He glanced down at the Welcome Mat. “However, I think I’ll take a rain check. Just tell Ashley I came by.”
“All right. I will.”
He turned to go.
“Oh,” Claire suddenly called to him. “Before you leave, Troy, I’ve been meaning to ask, would you like to come over for Thanks giving? I realize it’s still more than a month away, but I’d like to know ahead of time so I know how big a turkey I’ll need to buy. It would be just you, the baby, Ashley, and me. And maybe my friend Rachel and her husband Mark. I‘m not sure yet. I‘ll have to see what they have planned.”
Again, Troy looked down; felt hollow inside.
“You wouldn’t have to bring anything,” she promptly added. “So don’t worry about that. I’m like Martha Stewart. I make everything myself.”
How was Troy supposed to accept Miss Whittaker’s Thanks giving invitation, when her daughter had just told him that she never wanted to see him again?
“Yeah. I guess I’ll come over,” he said. “That is, if it’s okay with Ashley.”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” Claire took off her glasses. While she cleaned them with her shirt, she studied Troy’s body language. “If I don’t invite you my daughter will be giving me the fifth degree.”
He pretended to be amused. “Right, right. She probably will. Just tell her I stopped by.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and wait for her?”
“No. I really can’t, Miss Whittaker. I wish I could. I have to be somewhere.”
From behind Claire, the puppy Albert appeared. The Collie walked out onto the porch and sniffed Troy’s leg.
“Hey there boy.”
“Do you see how big Albert’s getting?”
“Yes. He‘s growing like a weed,” Troy remarked, bending over to pet the panting puppy.
“Did you know he can roll over now?” Claire impishly nudged the dog’s furry tail with her foot.
“No. It doesn’t surprise me though. Intelligence runs in your fami
ly.”
“Whoa!” She blushed. “Thank you.” Claire also stepped onto the porch. The screen door banged shut behind her. “Troy, be honest with me. Does my daughter feed Albert when I’m not here?”
“Miss Whittaker, please!”
“The reason why I’m asking is because the vet says the dog seems to be putting on more weight than he should. And every time I check our supply of biscuits, we seem to be low.”
Troy did not want to get involved. He did not need any more trouble. “I don’t know what Ashley does. You’ll have to ask her.” On that note, he hurried down the driveway to his car. As he drove away politely waving, Troy couldn’t help but wonder if that would be the last time he would ever stop by the Whittaker residence. This panicky thought left a painful lump in his throat.
CHAPTER 49
Thankfully, it turned out to be a false alarm. Whomever the cop was chasing, it wasn’t Ashley.
The patrol car had driven past her so swiftly; she had felt her Toyota rock aggressively from side to side. The officer, Ashley estimated, must have been going close to sixty miles an hour.
Before merging back onto the highway, Ashley needed time to compose herself. Her heart thumped mightily and her palms were sticky with perspiration.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered to herself, while firmly clutching the steering wheel, “you got lucky there. I’m surprised he didn’t see me toss the cup out the window.” To play it safe, she resolved to take the back roads the rest of the way home.
As Ashley pulled into the driveway behind her mother’s minivan, her mobile phone voiced its insistent squeal.
Oh no! It was Troy.
“What the hell!” she growled sulkily. “Do I have to change my number?”
“Ashley,” he said, his voice filled with unease. “At least hear me out.”
“No!” There’s nothing more to discuss. You had your chance, Troy, and you blew it. You blew it miserably.”
“But you didn’t give me a chance to defend myself. Think about it, if I didn’t want to be in a relationship with you, would I be calling you now?”
“Leave me alone! I don’t want to hear anymore of your lies. You’ve already hurt me enough.”
“Please!” he begged. “Don’t be like this. All I’m trying to do is set things right.”
“Well, you can’t. And I can’t believe I slept with you. That’s the worst thing of all. So please, don’t call me anymore.” After getting out of her car, Ashley warily snuck around to the backyard, with the bottle of Seagram’s vodka stuffed in her pocketbook. She hoped she could get down to her art studio before her mother noticed her car. Ashley was convinced she reeked of booze.
Now, as she stood in the dark kitchen, Albert came scampering into the room, and began to tug on her pant leg.
“Not now, Albert!” Ashley whispered. “Go on boy, scoot!”
“Who’s out there?” her mother suddenly called from the family room. “Is that you, Ashley?”
“Ahhh . . .” she dithered. “Yes.”
“Why’d you come in the back?”
“Because.” Think of something. C’mon! Anything. Quick! “The front door was locked. And I didn’t have my key with me.”
“That’s strange; I could have sworn I left the door open.” Claire must have been absorbed in whatever she was searching on the internet. It did not appear as if she planned to get up. “So where were you, Ash? What happened, did Stella make you work overtime?”
“Actually, she did. We were swamped today; so she had me stay late to clean up . . . Did you feed the baby?”
“Uh huh. A little while ago. But one of us is going to have to pick up more pampers. We only have a few left.”
“I’ll do it,” Ashley offered. “I’ll get them tomorrow. Where is Kimberly now, upstairs?”
“No. She’s in here with me.”
Ashley peeked into the other room. The cheery infant was crawling around in her new playpen.
“So Ash, how are you coming along with your paintings?”
“Good. Why?”
“I talked to Eve today.”
“And?”
“She said a curator in Trenton wants to look at some of your latest pieces.”
“That’s awesome,” Ashley replied, checking inside the fridge. She decided she’d eat the small container of coleslaw that was in the cold cut drawer. “I didn’t think there were any galleries in Trenton that specialized in anything other than the Revolutionary war.”
“Well, apparently they do,” her mother elevated her voice over the murmur of the TV. “Eve informed me that this particular gallery is primarily interested in abstract art. She took my advice and told the curator that you were a cross between Picasso, Monet, and Van Gogh.”
Closing the icebox, Ashley asked, “Is this a big gallery?”
“Nah. Eve said it’s relatively small. Elegant though. Very classy.”
“What’s it called?”
“Earthquake Gallery.”
“Never heard of it,” Ashley confessed, grabbing a spoon from the silverware drawer. “How long’s it been around?”
“Since 2000, I think. You have nothing to lose, Ash. I’m sure this guy will like your work.”
“Maybe. You never know.”
“Brad and Eve are good friends with him. If you don’t feel like traveling, the curator said he‘d come to the house and critique your paintings here.
“Sounds promising. I‘m psyched.”
“Oh. And I almost forgot Troy stopped by.”
“He did?” Ashley frowned. “When?”
“About a half hour ago. I invited him to Thanks giving. He told me he’d love to come as long as it was okay with you . . . Why do you suppose he’d say that? Did you guys get into an argument?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Ashley fibbed. “Do me a favor.”
“What‘s that?”
“If he comes over again, tell him I don’t want to be disturbed. If I’m going to impress this curator, I’ll need to get caught up. And I won‘t be able to paint with Troy looking over my shoulder.”
“All right. Except, I don‘t think he‘s coming back, he said he has to be somewhere.” Naturally, Claire wanted to give her daughter privacy. She believed that one day Ashley would be a highly respected artist. Possibly even a rich and famous one as well.
Relieved, Ashley went down to her studio and turned the light on. Before picking up a brush, she changed out of her bakery uniform and threw on a pair of denim coveralls.
Then, after putting on some music and mixing a potent drink, she lumbered over to her easel, where, on a huge canvas was her latest masterpiece, a compelling surreal representation of the Empire State Building. In the painting’s background, a commercial jet flew toward the New York City landmark, hinting at how life in America, since the bombing of the World Trade Center, had been changed forever.
CHAPTER 50
Despite being under the influence, Ashley was determined to add more detail to her Empire State Building painting.
By nine o’clock, however, her focus had gone off target. The thought of Troy had her mind ensnared in a complicated web of discontent.
But you didn’t give me a chance to defend myself. And think about it, if I didn’t want to be in a relationship with you, would I be calling you now?
Ashley did not know what she could possibly do to stop thinking about him.
Since she no longer felt inspired, she laid her pallet and paint brush down, and then, probably because her brain was saturated with liquor, she found herself dialing Kitty Woo’s phone number.
“Who’s this?” Plainly, Kitty had not been anticipating a call from the art studio on Blueberry Street.
“It’s Ashley.”
“Who?”
“Ashley Ferguson.”
“Well! What a surprise. How long’s it been, Ashley, a month and a half since we last spoke?”
“Yeah. Something
like that.”
“So what do I owe the honor?” Kitty inquired. “I thought you were in therapy?”
“I am. I go once a week.”
“Where, to a psychiatrist?”
“No. I rejoined my rape survivor group.”
“And what does that entail? Refresh my memory.”
“Me, the therapist, and about twenty-five other people, sit in a circle and talk. Some of the members in the group were raped when they were children, while others, like me, had had it happen to them more recently.”
“So why are you calling?” Kitty wanted to know. “Especially at nine o’clock at night?”
“I want to make a purchase.”
“Are you for real, why would you want to make a purchase if you’re back in therapy? The last time we spoke, you told me that you weren’t going to ask me for anymore pills. Remember, you said that your boyfriend helped you to see the light?”
What Ashley did not need right now was a confrontation.
“I know I said all that, Kitty. Except now I dropped out of therapy again. And Troy and I are no longer a couple. I ended the relationship. It turns out he wasn‘t a good fit for me.” It took ten minutes for Ashley to convince her old dealer to help her.
“Okay,” Kitty said, sighing. “What is it that you need?”
“Morphine.” Ashley explained the exact dosage. “If I could steal more of this stuff from my brother-in-law I would. But it‘s just not possible. He and his wife would never trust me near their medicine cabinet again. Even though they could never prove that I was the one who had taken it.”
“Fine. I can get that.”
“Fantastic! You’re the best, Kitty. Can you score it for tomorrow, I already have the money?”
“Sure. That shouldn‘t be a problem.”