Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  "Nope. Turnipseed is a common and respected name in these parts, mister," I whispered with mock censure. "Unfortunately, these particular Turnipseeds spend so much time in a bottle, they never finish a job. You’ll find it cheaper, smarter, and more time conservative to go with somebody else."

  "I’ll keep that in mind." Alan’s hands tightened on my waist in warning. Tomeka was doing a duckwalk past the sasanqua, squatted down, resting on her ankles as she waddled past. Her head was turned away, looking beneath the porch.

  "Gotcha! Gotcha!" she shouted. Four or five screaming little Chadwicks of every skin color burst into the light falling from the porch, all running every which way like chickens.

  "Got all of you. Help me find the others. My mama’s yellin’ for me," she shouted.

  From inside the house, I could hear several mothers calling for children. Small bodies ran for the house, the porch, and their respective families, including the two from beneath my feet. As they emerged, the filth of an evening’s play clearly visible, I could hear the outraged exclamations of a mother or two. It was dirty on a farm. Kids were supposed to get grubby and stinky. I was sure it was a rule, written down somewhere.

  The game over, Alan and I emerged from the shadows. He dropped his hand from my waist to rest both of his on his cane. I hoped he couldn’t see my blush in the diffuse porch light. "I must admit, Mrs. D, that was the most unusual business meeting I’ve ever attended." He handed an envelope to me. "I hope to hear from you in a day or two."

  "Macon needs a day to look this over, and then we’ll call the judge and find out what we have to do to drop the restraining order. Jack signed the original, but since he’s . . ." What? How do I say it? I swallowed with difficulty. ". . . not with us now, I assume the judge will let me sign the release, or whatever." I looked away, my flush fading at the thought of Jack. It wasn’t right, my talking to this man. But then, it wasn’t right what Jack did with Robyn, either, was it? I looked at Alan. There was a hint of understanding in his face that caught at my heart. A flash of tears drenched my eyes, and when I spoke, my tone was harsher than I intended. "I’ll give your new secretary a call as soon as I know something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get my Nana to bed."

  Alan inclined his head, smiled that exquisite, sensitive smile of his and stepped away. I had the feeling I had been gauche, perhaps even rude, yet I didn’t know how else I might have responded to his . . . what? Alan Mathison was a former patient, a new businessman in town, a competitor. He had been friendly, kind. And, like me, he was alone in the world, trying to build a new life. Alan was not an investor in Davenport Hills. He had, in fact, worked at Taylor, Inc. for only six years. The list of investors for the project had been drawn up years prior to Alan’s employment. Of all the people in my new life, he was the safest, while not exactly an ally. Great. I had insulted a new friend by my tone, if not my words. I’d have to encourage Macon to speed up the process of withdrawing the restraining order. A little cooperation from DavInc would go a long way toward rebuilding any bridges I just singed. I watched him walk away, moving to his car in the dark, his limp pronounced.

  Climbing the front steps, I went to work cleaning out Nana’s and Aunt Mosetta’s visitors. By eleven, I had Nana’s foot and knee iced down, a Darvocet in her system, the dishes washed and put away, and the house straight. Exhausted, I left Jonetta, Aunt Mosetta and Nana arguing about sleeping arrangements and went home. Nana didn’t want to be babied or spoiled, and she certainly didn’t want them sleeping in her room. Both Jonetta and Aunt Mosetta wanted to be close in case she needed anything. I figured they could bicker about it alone as well as they could with me in attendance. I needed a break. It had been a long, wearing day.

  Back home, Big Dog needed attention, both medical, and the loving kind that included a steak and lots of scratching. He had gotten dirt and dust in the puckered, healing incision running the length of his side; it looked inflamed. I gave him his overdue antibiotic, cleaned his wound with warm water and antibacterial soap, then fed him a cold sirloin steak I had picked up at BiLo. While he ate, I scratched his ears and belly and back, all the while telling him he was a sweet-smoochums-of-a-hero-dog. He ate up the attention like the protein, licking me almost as thoroughly as he did his bowl. Bish had tried to feed him, but Big Dog’s new hatred of men had not abated in the least following the afternoon’s excitement. He didn’t like the bodyguard.

  Finally, close to midnight, I found time to open my email and snail mail. Sitting curled up in the center of my bed, I was surrounded by soft rose satins and beige silks and locally woven brocades, all in muted patterns and stripes and flame stitched designs. Jasmine snored gently beside me. The broken lamp had been replaced. The bloodstains removed with the rugs or washed up. Had Macon cleaned up? Or one of the celebrating Chadwicks? All evidence of the attack on Jas had vanished. All but the swelling of her nose, and the uneasy dreams which played beneath her eyelids. I watched her for long minutes.

  In my email, there was a note from Monica, telling me she was thinking about me, which I found hard to believe. Most of the rest was spam. In the snail mail, there was a card from one of my cousins in California. It was a delayed condolence, a floral Hallmark note with a scripture verse on the inside. I put the card on top of the bills, tossed the ads into the trash and opened the large manila envelope sealed with two-inch-wide shipping tape. There was no postmark, and I wondered how it got through the mail. From inside I pulled an 8x10 full color photo. It took a moment for me to process the pictures, to make sense of the lines and forms and colors.

  It was Hokey and Herman.

  Blood ran in rivulets reflecting back the flash, glistening. A dark red stain. The dogs were freshly dead. Or perhaps still suffering. I dropped the photograph as if it burned me. Inside, I felt no heat at all. I was cold. So very cold. My fingers, poised above the photo were white and pasty. I blinked. Took a breath, shaky and stiff, feeling the pain in my ribs for the first time in hours.

  There was a paper clip at the top, the metal curl touching Hokey’s ear. Forcing myself to touch the vile thing, I flipped it over. On the back was a typed note.

  Did I get your attention?

  We want the EVIDENCE, Ashlee, dear.

  IT’S TIME. You’ve been

  A VERY BAD GIRL.

  Shivering, I pulled the blankets up to my neck, dislodging the pile of bills and advertisements and the up-ended photo. They all slid to the floor in an untidy pile, the picture on top in all its gory glory. Ugly. Ugly thing. Fury whipped through me and vanished.

  The lamplight was a soft pool on the ceiling. The clock ticked softly in the hall. The delicate tint on the walls wavered and swirled as tears filled my eyes. I was alone with all this. I was really, really alone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The phone rang before six, when only a faint light tinted the sky gray. My face was turned into the pillow, my breath warm on the satin case, my dreams sharp shards drifting across my memory, slicing, cutting. On the first ring, I opened my eyes, and I could have sworn my breath stopped. It had to be the curser. It had to be Bill McKelvey. It was too early for anyone else.

  Beside me, Jasmine snored softly, tangled in the sheets. On the second ring I threw off the comforter, springing up like a much younger woman. The shock of my landing traveled up from my heels to my neck, a quick, stabbing pain in my strained ankle. I bared my teeth in a grimace. I must have looked like an aging lion, mane tangled and sleep-tossed, running down the hallway.

  I didn’t want Jas to hear the voice. I didn’t want her to hear the threats. I wanted to protect my daughter from this man and the filth he spewed. Fury sparked in me like fire, a blaze of rage. Damn him! Damn this man who thrust himself at me through the dark of sleep! A low sound like a snarl puffed from my throat with each breath, with each step. Part rage. Part pain.

  I picked up the receiver before the fourth ring. A fierce calm descended upon me then. Frigid. Cold as the arctic steeps. As cold and impenetrable as a
glacier. "This is Ashlee Davenport," I said, my voice thick with hostility and sleep.

  "I want to talk to Jack."

  It was him. The man who cursed, the foul-mouthed man who threatened and swore. It wasn’t the man who spoke softly and pricked with a knife and murdered my dogs. It wasn’t the cool, calculating threat of the Soiled Utility Room, or the violence of the attack upon Jasmine. It wasn’t the pure evil of the photograph of Hokey and Herman delivered in a plain envelope. But it was a threat I could put my hands on. Reply to. Deal with. And damn him for this harassment. "Jack. Is. Dead," I said distinctly, icy restraint containing my fury. "He has been dead for weeks."

  The pause on the other end was sharp, disbelieving. A short hiss of shock. After a long silence, he said, "Dead?" And there was the resonance of despair in the simple word, the sound of an intimate and personal ruin.

  "Yes. Dead," I said, hearing the fury in my voice. "And I know who you are, William McKelvey. I know about the deal between you and my husband, and the equal value exchange that went wrong. I know about the toxic waste landfill you got stuck with, and the financial problems you are having. I know all this," I ground out, my hand clenched on the receiver. Jack. It was all because of Jack. "My lawyers are looking for a solution for you. But until then, you will not call this number again. Do you understand?"

  "Dead?" he whispered. And then McKelvey’s voice changed. "No! No! He’s not dead! He’s . . . Damn it! You put him on the phone! Put him on!" McKelvey screamed. "Put the son of a bitch on!" I held the phone from my ear. It was a howl, a wounded wolf, berserk with pain and anger and something . . . not quite sane. The hairs lifted along the length of my neck.

  "He’s gonna pay, do you hear me? He’s gonna pay. He can’t do this to me. I want—"

  Softly, gently, I hung up the phone. The click stopped the awful screech mid-word. I stood, still and cold, shivering in the early morning cold and the sudden silence of the office.

  McKelvey would not be an easy man to deal with. The phone rang, the shrill tone making me jump. Reaching over, I turned down the volume on the machine. I wouldn’t hear Jack’s voice answer. I wouldn’t hear McKelvey’s deranged threats. Padding softly, I returned to my room.

  With McKelvey’s threats recorded on the answering machine, and with all that had happened to me in the last few days, Macon was able to get Judge Yarborough to issue a fifteen-day restraining order against the man. The order could be renewed at the end of fifteen days, and again every fifteen days after that, until the situation was cleared up or until McKelvey went over the edge. Not that a restraining order was much protection. I knew exactly how safe a woman was from the determined pursuit of a dangerous man. I had tended the damaged and injured for years, those battered women who had looked to the law for defense. Restraining orders were simply a paper hurdle, easily overcome.

  I made certain Bish stayed with Jas at all times. When she went to shower, he waited outside the bathroom. When she slept, he took the room across the hall. The enforced intimacy and the relationship blooming between them was a problem I would have to deal with later. For now, I depended on Bish’s earlier claim. "I never screw clients." It wasn’t much.

  But my Jazzy Baby was strong and resilient; she bounced back quickly, laughing easily, her old self. The nightmares were mine. And the fear. What if I hadn’t gotten there in time? I wore my 9mm to the barn, to the office, to Davenport Hills, to the bathroom, to everywhere, awaiting an attack for which I couldn’t prepare. Two days passed. Then another. Late in the day, after dealing with the ordinary crises of Jack’s work-a-day world, I was taking a quiet break over a glass of wine and a slice of orange. I had missed my glass of wine the day of McKelvey’s attack, and there hadn’t been time since. I wanted to savor it.

  Jas and Bish were down at the barn, entertaining a prospective client at the training ring, putting Annie Oakley’s Hope—a flashy four year old—through her paces. Annie Oakley had taken first place in two shows as a three year old, drawing both a hackney cart and a traditional Friesian gig. And though she had taken time off from competition to heal from an injury to a front hoof, she was now in good health and fine form. Without her corrective shoes, the mare was beautifully balanced, versatile, and quite the show off.

  Everyone from the office was gone. I was alone in the yard with Big Dog, my glass of wine in one hand, the orange in the other, and a trickle of juice beading on my chin. Big Dog was marking the entire yard, lifting his bad leg, pausing for moment, and then moving on to another spot he had neglected for the duration of his convalescence. Doggie version of reestablishing his territory. He had been out only twice all day, and he had saved up for the extended evening rest time, marking the tires on the Jeep and the Volvo and Jas’ little truck and Wicked’s Crown Vic and Bish’s snazzy Corvette. He also marked the monkey grass, azaleas, and the patch of freshly planted mums from Jack’s funeral. It was a sign of my ambivalent grief that I didn’t chase Big Dog to a more appropriate spot. I just sipped my wine and watched him mark the yard.

  Standing in the driveway, I heard the car engine. It was moving steadily down the drive as I turned to watch, a big, seventies model, pearl colored Cadillac with bright chrome wheels sparkling in the evening sun. I knew the car. I knew the driver. It was Reverend Perry, coming to offer his condolences and pay his respects. He had been the pastor of First Baptist Church for over twenty-five years until he retired three years ago. He had baptized me, married me to Jack, baptized my daughter, and watched over my spiritual health ever since I could remember. He had been the spiritual heart and soul of DorCity for a quarter of a century, and he would have buried my husband, had he been in town when Jack died. Though retired, Reverend Perry had been my first choice for the eulogy and the funeral sermon, the one person outside of family I had tried to reach the night Jack died. But the good reverend had been in Mexico, building a church and hospital, leading a three month mission trip. Reverend Perry hadn’t been available. And now, here he was, driving down my drive, prepared to console the grieving widow and pray with her and share in her sorrow. It wasn’t a role I could play anymore. I wasn’t grieving. I wasn’t in sorrow. I no longer knew what I was.

  "Big Dog," I called. He looked from the approaching car to me and back again, wagging his tail in recognition. He knew Reverend Perry and liked the older man; his recent hatred of men would not be extended to the missionary pastor. But then, everyone liked Reverend Perry.

  "Big Dog! Come!" I commanded. He sighed, the pink, scarred flesh on his side moving despondently. "Come!"

  He came, loping erratically on three legs, pausing to nuzzle my hand before he climbed the steps to the screened porch and through the doggie door Bish had enlarged in the last two days. Greeting Cherry’s puppies, Big Dog sniffed each, exhaled happily and settled in beside the terrier mom. They made an unlikely looking family. Cherry, all of ten pounds with milk-filled teats, lay on her side. Big Dog, neutered, shaved, weighing in at over one hundred tweny-five pounds, curled up beside her. Four fast-growing puppies climbed over mother and adoptive father with abandon.

  Reverend Perry’s tires crunched on the gravel. I put my wine glass and well gnawed rind of orange on the step and walked to the preacher’s car. He looked good, especially for a man in his seventies, skin tanned by a Mexican sun, muscles hardened by physical labor. His blue eyes flashed behind the window as he opened the car door. Gentle eyes. And even that contributed to my feeling of ambivalence, that Reverend Perry should be here, so full of love and gentleness.

  He was dressed in jeans, a work shirt, and running shoes, the soles silent on the gravel drive. Odd dress for a pastor out on his ministerial rounds, yet the required dress code for a retired missionary carpenter. "Ashlee." Gentle voice to go with the gentle eyes and gentle smile.

  Tears pricked at my eyes. Seeing them, he folded me against his chest, a fatherly gesture, full of compassion. "I got in the day before yesterday," he said. "I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, Ashlee. I would have seen you through this.
I would have been here for you."

  I don’t know why, but I broke down. Or, I do know why, but I was surprised at the rush of misery I unleashed on his chest. Violent, intense tears, a terrible anguish. Twisting my fists into the fabric of his shirt, I cried in real grief for the first time in days. Big, despairing tears mourning my lost dreams, my empty life, and the innocent joy I had once known. Tears that mourned Jack. The Jack I had known and loved and lost so totally. Reverend Perry murmured soothing words, stroking my hair, patting my back, rocking me like a father with a wailing child. "It’s all right, Ashlee. It’s going to be fine. You just cry it all out and we’ll pray together. The Lord will take all your heartache and sorrow upon Him." Words I half heard as he soothed me and I sobbed.

  Long, long minutes later, he handed me a tissue and helped me wipe my eyes, patting my cheeks and chin with slow, easy pats. Reverend Perry was like that, slow and easy and steady and thorough. Finally I smiled up at him and managed a shaky laugh. "Even my own father didn’t let me cry like that." I blew my nose and wadded up the tissue.

  "Yes. I’ve met your father, remember. At your baptism, and again at your wedding." Reverend Perry’s eyes twinkled blue as an afternoon sky, though behind me, the sun was setting, tinting the heavens plum, pink, and gray. "A bit . . . cowed as I recall."

  I nodded. "My mother . . . Well, you know."

  "Yes. I know your mother well." He handed me a second tissue. I blew my nose again. "She never recovered from the betrayal of Pap Hamilton."

  I looked up, surprised, and then blew my nose one last time, hard. "What do you mean?"

  "I taught religion to your mother in high school, watched her mature. A beautiful girl, she was. Her father’s passing was a hard time for her. There was scarcely an outward change in her at all. But the day Wallace moved in and the talk about Pap Hamilton started, she began to change. She grew hard and flighty and cold. Before that, your mother was a warm, gentle young woman."