Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  Nana lit the candles on the vanity, scented, hand-dipped wax candles from England that had, until now, been a decorative touch, accenting the rose-colored countertop of the master bath. The electric lights went out, leaving me in the candlelight. The flames flickered and glimmered on the steam-damp brass and porcelain, tossing shadows and hissing in the steam. I drank the rest of the whiskey in a single gulp as Nana went to deal with the deputy. The glass clinked as I set it on the tile beside the tub and slid my hands beneath the swirling water.

  I woke half an hour later as the whirlpool jets suddenly stopped and silence filled the dim room. Voices drifted in from the hallway. I recognized Macon and Nana and Mosetta. I wanted to join them, but whiskey and lethargy, heat and exhaustion, had drained me, holding me immobile in a hot wet tomb, just as in my childhood fears.

  "It’s all tied in with Davenport Hills, Mama Moses. And frankly, I wouldn’t be discussing any of this had Ash not authorized me to."

  "Why’s that boy? You keepin’ secrets from Mama Moses again? I thought you mama an’ me done fixed that bad habit o’ yours."

  "No ma’am," Macon said quickly. "Attorney client privilege. It’s the law."

  Aunt Mosetta "Harrumphed," clearly not satisfied.

  "The problem—or one of the problems—is something about the land itself and the equal value exchange that brought the land to Jack in the first place, although I admit I haven’t found any irregularities in the paperwork so far."

  "Tell you Mama Moses what a equal value exchange be, boy, ’cause so far, you talking nonsense."

  "An equal value exchange is the way businessmen avoid paying sales taxes on certain business deals. For instance, if you bought my Jeep Cherokee, you’d have to pay sales tax, but if you gave me an acre of land in the middle of town for it, valued at the same amount as the Jeep, neither one of us would have to pay sales tax."

  "Barter," Aunt Mosetta said. From my hot bath, I could almost see her nodding her gray head in understanding. Aunt Mosetta was in her nineties, but sharp as a scalpel.

  "Right. Exactly. But some businessmen overvalue the price of a piece of real estate, or conveniently forget that there’s something wrong with a property and exchange it for another property of greater value. Effectively, they end up cheating both their business partner and the state of the sales tax."

  "I don’t understand what this has to do with Jack," Nana said.

  The whiskey and the pain held me prisoner beneath the water. I lifted my shoulders and cold air from the window over the tub brushed my heated skin. The window was ajar just a bit, and I wondered when Nana had opened it. Steam swirled up around me, a ghostly haze, half seen in the candlelight. Shadows played tag on the walls and ceiling, merging and parting like lovers.

  "It’s like this Nana. Let’s say you have a piece of land with a cemetery on it, but it’s overgrown with kudzu and honeysuckle, and even in winter, the stones can’t be seen. And let’s say you sell it to me for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars, knowing that I want to put twenty or thirty houses on it and tennis courts and a club house. But you don’t tell me about the cemetery and halfway through the project I have to stop. Now I’m losing money. But it’s too late to fix the problem because you sold the property I exchanged for the cemetery property. And maybe you’ve even gone out of business. You’re long gone and the problem is mine. And so is the time-consuming financial burden of moving a cemetery."

  "That’s what Ashlee’s man done? Sold some land that was different from what he represented it to be, and now it all coming to light, but he’s gone?" Aunt Mosetta asked.

  Water moved around me, covering my chin, hot and suffocating, but I no longer wanted out. I no longer struggled against the internal exhaustion and heat holding me prisoner. I just wanted to hear what Macon would say. Coward that I was, I couldn’t have told them half as much. A breeze wafted past my face, moving the steam and the candlelight in bizarre patterns.

  "I’m not saying Jack did anything wrong, Mama Moses. The piece of property in Charlotte that he exchanged for the old farms making up Davenport Hills was only in his possession for eight months. No surveys or other hard physical evidence suggests that Jack knew the piece of real estate he exchanged for the farms was an old chemical dump. It’s likely that he didn’t know that the Charlotte property was contaminated." Macon paused halfway through his little lie. Just a faint, half-beat of silence in the midst of his words. Perhaps he hadn’t been a lawyer long enough to deceive with equanimity, to fabricate falsehoods on the run. Because Jack had known about the contamination. I was now sure that he had known.

  "But the fact remains that the property is worthless. And the man who exchanged the Davenport Hills property is practically ruined. He’s declaring bankruptcy and losing everything. His half of the exchange was a disaster." Macon’s voice was different now as he broke the bad news, not the cool, even cadence of the courtroom lawyer, but gentle tones of family.

  "And this is the man what killed Jasmine’s dogs?"

  "No. This is the man who has been calling and leaving the threatening messages I told you about. We don’t know that he’s the same one who killed the dogs."

  Nana snorted. So did I. The sound came out as a soft breathy sigh that rippled the water beneath my nose. I knew who had killed Hokey and Herman. I had smelled him. Felt the prick of his knife.

  "So. What are you doing to protect your cousins?" Nana asked. "What." It was more demand than question, and my mind whispered, Yes . . . what?

  "I’m bringing a security expert to evaluate the alarm system for the house, and see about installing a system on the barn and the storage sheds. I’m going to recommend that Ashlee retain this expert’s services and use him to look into any other problems, with the aim of clearing Jack’s name. I think he intended to clear all this up before he died, and I wouldn’t like to see Ash and Jas suffer from something that happens all the time in business." I snorted again, the water moving in faint circles. "And I’m looking into issuing a restraining order for William McKelvey. That’s the man who feels he was cheated in the equal exchange." Yes, my mind whispered relieved. Macon continued. "Lastly I’m taking Jas and Ash to the practice range for target practice twice a week, starting tomorrow. Ah, today, actually."

  "No," I whispered, sinking lower in the tub. I suddenly didn’t like Macon Chadwick at all. Hot water moved across my lips as I frowned.

  "That chile gonna have a fit. She neva did like guns. Don’t reckon I much like ’em myself," Aunt Mosetta said thoughtfully. "But the Good Book say there be a time for everythin’ under heaven. And I suppose that means guns too."

  "Eat your ice cream, Moses."

  "Humph. Would rather have soakey."

  "Meanwhile," Macon said, "keep your eyes and ears open and tell me if anything odd or unusual happens around here. I can deal with it and save Ashlee a lot of time and trouble."

  "This security expert. Who he be?"

  "He’s the best, Mama Moses."

  "He a Chadwick?"

  "I said he’s the best, didn’t I?"

  I could hear the comforting, lopsided smile in Macon’s voice. And yet . . . I lifted my shoulders again from the depths of the tub. Too faint a movement to reach cool air. My mind, as sluggish and lethargic as my body, struggled with Macon’s words. Like a dream just recalled, like a jewel picked out by candlelight in the velvet darkness of a hand-painted box, something in Macon’s story didn’t add up. Something wasn’t right. There was something else going on. Something besides the threatening phone calls and the obvious problem with the land deal. I knew it because the man with the knife had wanted a file. Permits. He was a new problem, self-proclaimed to be worse than McKelvey’s problem. Macon knew nothing about him. And of the two, he was far, far worse.

  The candles guttered, nearly going out as a sharp gust blew into the room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I spent a restless night, starting at every creak and thump, watching the shadows play against the blinds. I didn�
��t sleep, and fear left me exhausted. In the morning, with nothing solved and no rest, I crawled from the rumpled covers, dawn light striping the carpet through the blinds, throwing the room into a dull monotone, a sepia print. Like my mind when I tried to figure out what to do, washed out and limp and lifeless.

  I couldn’t go to the police. Not if I wanted to protect Jasmine from the effects of her father’s . . . what? What had Jack been up to that had caused this mess?

  But I had money. Jack had at least seen to that. I could hire the kind of protection most people could only dream of. I had never been bothered with decisions of this sort. Never troubled with thoughts of security or danger. That had been Jack’s job. And Jack had let me down.

  Muscles protested when I tried to force my body from the mattress, and it took long painful minutes to make it to the shower. Dual shower heads beat the stiffness from my limbs, pinkened my skin, drenched my hair, bringing life back into my body if not my soul. As the water pulsed against my skin, four phrases pounded against my mind, a litany, a solemn cadence, the remains of a half forgotten dream, mocking and curious, the questions in an unknown voice.

  "What will you do with the years ahead? What will you do all alone?" And in syncopated beat, "How will you protect your little girl? How will you protect your child?" The words bludgeoned my mind as the water did my body. The dark and solitary mystery of the future. The fear of the present.

  Avoiding all mirrors, I dressed in T-shirt, overshirt of warm flannel, and jeans and slipped through the house, leaving Jas and Topaz asleep, heading for the barn. It wasn’t often I beat my daughter to the barn. I usually did small chores around the house, like making breakfast or actually hanging up my own clothes, but not today. Today I wanted the freedom of the outdoors. I had troubles, but I wanted to think of nothing, worry about nothing. Today, just for this moment, I wanted nonhuman companions and the feel of the sun, no matter how pallid a warmth, on my shoulders.

  Leaving the house, I ignored the insistent blinking red light of the answering machine on the personal line as I had ignored it for days. What will I do with the years ahead? What will I do all alone? How will I keep my daughter safe? How?

  The sky outside was pale gray, the sun weak, vague, and feeble, the world an uncertain old woman who can’t remember what she planned for the day. A tentative ambiguous light, trickling down on the wet ground outside, a false sign of warmth. Jimmy Ray, relatively sober for a change, came running from the barn, his arms flapping as if he would take flight.

  "She’s down. She’s gone down," he yelled.

  Jas, I thought instantly. My heart like a fist, twisted within me.

  "Mabel’s down in her stall."

  Relief thundered through me. With a silent gasp, I stepped off the deck and into the yard. The earth squished beneath my feet from the steady rain I had heard through my fitful dreams.

  "Looks like her water broke already. I been here since ’bout four, and I done checked on her every half hour, so it can’t be too far along," Jimmy Ray said, huffing and puffing and smelling of stale beer and day-old sweat.

  A marionette with several strings cut, I ran for the barn, and a birth that stood a good chance of being difficult. This was Mabel’s last foal, and at her age, it was possible she should not have been bred at all. His arms windmilling, Jimmy Ray followed.

  Mabel was in the first stall past the tack room, her breathing deep and rhythmic. She was already in stage two of labor; the foal’s forelegs, covered with a thick white membrane, were visible, sticking through the distended lips of Mabel’s vulva. Her tail, which Jas and the vet had wrapped in preparation for the birth, was lifted high, out of the way. Her sides, rounded and ponderous, seemed to ripple beneath the patchy remains of her winter coat. With a heaving sigh the contraction passed; she pulled her hooves under her and came to her feet, an ungainly action, free of her usual horse grace. Mabel was taking a break from the task of birthing her tenth foal. She stood calmly at her feed trough and munched a mouthful of hay. Her black eyes were placid, her black tail held high like a salute, with the foal’s feet sticking out behind like extra limbs.

  Jimmy Ray and I stopped outside the stall. Resting my elbows on the wide shelf formed by the open upper door, I watched, evaluating Mabel as I had done so often for Jack. This wasn’t the first time I had delivered a foal without my husband present. But it probably would be the last time. Unexpected tears stung my eyes.

  Mabel, moving stiffly, turned around and stuck her soft nose into my hand, her warm breath whuffing against my fingers.

  "You doin’ okay, old girl?" I slid my fingers up along the ridges of nose, toward her eyes, gently scratching in the stiff mane. The mare lifted her head and placed it on my shoulder for a moment, as the heated horse smell filled my nostrils and my good arm came up around the muscular neck, slick now with sweat. She looked fine at the moment, as if the night before had been calm and peaceful, not filled with the sound of shotguns and the scent of death. Mabel breathed again, her nose in my hair. It was a melancholy sigh, as if she were saying, "Break’s over. I better get back to work." A tremor ran along her body at the involuntary contraction.

  Head tossing, hooves pawing, Mabel pivoted and moved slowly to the far side of the box stall and back, walking for a time until settling in the deep straw bed. She dropped slowly, curling one leg under at a time, easing down. Grunting already with the voluntary expulsive effort. In nurse-speak, Mabel was pushing. I didn’t enter the stall. Mabel preferred to give birth alone, always had. I was just along in case there were problems. She huffed and pushed, and for a while, it seemed as if Mabel and I were the only two beings on God’s green earth, locked together in the birth of her foal. The tip of the foal’s nose appeared, wrapped tightly in the thick birth membrane. More of the legs.

  The back door of the house slammed, the sound muted from here, and Jimmy Ray reappeared. I had forgotten him. Jas tore in to the barn, skidded to a stop beside me and gave me a perfunctory hug, one arm about my waist, her head above my shoulder. The same shoulder Mabel had rested on. And like the mare, Jas lowered her head and rested her chin there, her breath quick puffs from running. "She doin’ okay?" she whispered. "How long’s it been?"

  "I think so. It’s taking a little longer than with her last one, but it looks like she’s just taking her time." I checked my watch. There was still blood in the groove where crystal met casing. Big Dog’s blood. I hadn’t noticed when I slipped it on. I guessed that Mabel had been in labor for perhaps fifteen minutes.

  The long length of nose slid out, retracted a few inches, and slid out again. The bridge between the eyes showing clearly. Ripples of exertion flexed down Mabel’s sides and flanks.

  "Daddy said she was slowing down." A peculiar thrill, like the shock of nearby lightning, shot through me. Painful. Jas had been Jack’s little girl. Daddy’s girl. "I don’t think he meant this though," she continued, her words a soft breathy sound in my ear. "How long has she been in stage two?" It was a professional question, clipped and concerned. My daughter, Jasmine Leah Davenport—the county’s best amateur vet. I rocked my head against her face.

  "I been checkin’ her every half hour since four, so it ain’t been too long." Jimmy Ray repeated, from above now, his voice filtering down from the hayloft over Mabel’s feed trough. Jimmy Ray knew not to enter the stall. Except for Jack, Mabel didn’t much like men.

  Mabel’s grunting deepened and the tremors quivering down her sweat-streaked body seemed to intensify. The foal started to move again, forced through the birth canal with steady, slick motions. "She’s fine, honey," I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "She’s in no distress. She’s just not in a hurry." My eyes never left the straining horse. My fingers curled into the wood of the door, as if by holding on I could assist the big mare in her labor. The foal’s forelegs and the forefront of the shoulders were exposed. They were big and rounded for such a tiny horse, even in birth showing the strength of the breed that would come with maturity. The foal�
�s feet were wet, with the fringe of soft horn hanging out beneath. Jagged, pliable skirts, designed by nature to protect the placenta and membrane from tearing in uetero.

  The shoulders slid out and Mabel gave a single heavy grunt of pain, or satisfaction. Perhaps both. The big mare rested again, breathing heavily into the straw beneath her. Beside me, Jas opened the gate to the stall and slipped through, moving around the mare to the foal at her rear. Mabel, intent now on her travail, ignored her.

  With delicate movements, Jack’s daughter and mine tore the membrane covering the foal’s nostrils and cleared the mucous from his breathing passages, a task Jack had always performed with such dexterity and gentleness—with fingers shaped and formed just like his, long and tapering and much stronger than they appeared. Her movements were so much like his that I wanted to cry just watching her. She had even remembered to slip on surgical gloves to protect the horse and herself. I hadn’t had to remind her.

  I checked my watch. Twenty-five minutes. Maybe more. The official rule of thumb for birthing horses is thirty minutes, no more. Any longer and a vet should be summoned. Mabel quickly passed that time limit, but she still seemed in no distress, just typically Mabel, slow and methodical about everything. And so I waited, putting off a call I didn’t think we would need.

  Mabel sighed again, resting her chin in the straw. It moved with each breath, silent, but still strong. Jas murmured soft words to mother and foal, pulling gently at the tough membrane, emptying bloody water into the straw bed, exposing more of the Friesian foal’s black coat. All Friesian’s are as black as a moonless night, and the coats seem to throw back the light, as if glittering with stars. Mabel took a single, deep breath, lifted her head, and grunted. The foal slid free, his body and rounded massive hindquarters slipped out and bumped gently to the straw.

  Jas ignored the cord hanging from Mabel, pulling instead at the membrane remaining on the colt. He jerked once and lay quiet. I watched Jas move slowly around Mabel, checking for signs of distress, signs of prolapse, signs of the myriad postnatal problems that threatened mares. Especially a mare as old as Mabel. Tears welled up and fell as I watched. Jas moved so much like Jack, so sure, so smooth and definite. No wasted motions. Finally she sat back on her haunches, forearms resting on her knees, her eyes on Mabel and the colt. I entered the stall and sat beside the mare’s head, stroking her old bones and talking to her as we waited for stage three of labor, the expulsion of the afterbirth.