Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  "Good," I murmured. "Let’s go get a barbecue sandwich." The food at turkey-shoots was always luscious, savory, delicious—most any synonym. It was also high in fat, cholesterol, and calories. Now that I had most of my appetite back, I would have to be careful not to overeat and regain the weight I had lost grieving over Jack. I enjoyed the comfortable fit of my old jeans.

  There were over two hundred participants signed up for the turkey shoot, which made this an all day, jam-packed affair. There were eight rounds with twenty-five participants in each round, all shooting 12-gauge shotguns loaded with birdshot. The targets were turkey-shaped, attached to wooden frames, and each participant would get three shots, instead of the usual single shot. Two rounds would shoot at once, while a harried announcer tried to keep pace on the ancient P.A. system. Two sets of judges controlled the show from the safety of a judge’s stand and observers watched from the sides behind a heavy duty rope, hung with yellow caution flags.

  Bales of hay were set around the gravel lot for atmosphere and vehicle parking was haphazard, with pickups and rusty camouflage hunting trucks predominating. There was a traveling carnival set up to one side for the kiddies with a small Ferris wheel, a toddler-sized roller coaster, tilt-a-whirl, and other rides, most of which should have been outlawed as unsafe a decade ago. The smells of popcorn and cotton candy were drawing a young crowd, children pulling at their parents’ hands in anticipation. The carnies were barking out their attractions.

  I would be awarding the prizes to the best shot in each early category round of the turkey-shoot, as well as the best and second best shots in the final round. In between handing out awards, I was free to share the day’s festivities with the shooters and friends. My duties had been explained to me on the trip out, my daughter’s voice reflecting that you-should-know-better tone again, the bane of mother’s everywhere. Perhaps because I hadn’t planned for the orgy of food and gunpowder, the mass of people or the noise, I was able to relax and enjoy it all. I hadn’t brooded about it or been given time to dread it, and because I hadn’t had to plan the event itself, I could revel in the simple pleasures of the day. Sunshine beat down, warming me. Hugs and well wishes from old friends met me at every turn. Roast pig and big fluffy buns, ice cold Diet Coke and homemade ice cream dipped from the churn filled my stomach, pressing against the waist band of my jeans. And my stinky-smelling-stalker was in jail. My stress began to seep away.

  Whichever investor had been behind the actions of Stinky Dixon had two choices: to attack me personally or hire another front man. I didn’t think Stinky’s boss would risk personal involvement, especially before hundreds of witnesses, most of them my friends and family. And there would be no repeat error on the night of the Patrons’ Party—I wouldn’t be alone. With Chadwick’s all around, and because Stinky was in jail, I felt safe. I even left my 9mm locked in the glove compartment of the Jeep. Not even the presence of Bret McDermott and my suspicions about the man made me regret the decision to abandon the gun. I needed the leisure and the crowd. I needed the freedom from worry and fear.

  The danger to Jas would soon be at an end, McKelvey’s threats were being dealt with by Macon’s capable hands, and, so long as I didn’t think about Robyn or Reverend Perry’s visit, I was just fine. The beer Bish brought me in a paper cup helped, too. He might have an eye for my daughter and an unfortunate tendency to forthright speech, but he did know how to quench a thirst. The beer also did wonders for my nagging little headache. All in all, it was a lovely day.

  By four P.M. I had given out three prizes for the best shot in preliminary rounds, handing over a turkey or ham and offering a short congratulatory speech to the winner. Not being accustomed to public speaking, I didn’t know where the words came from, but judging from the smiles on the winner’s faces I must have done fairly well. Each little speech was a variation of:

  "It is my pleasure to award you, Jimbo Kendall, this prize the preliminary round of the Rescue Squad’s turkey shoot. I have to admit I couldn’t hit a tractor-trailer if I was locked inside one, so I especially admire a close, clean win. Again, congratulations and we all hope you’ll hang around for the Champions Round to take place near sundown. Meanwhile, enjoy the festivities and the good food." My words, amplified by the county’s sound system were scratchy, squally, and full of feedback, but no one seemed to care much so long as I smiled real wide and clapped the winner on the back as I handed him his turkey and his family snapped photos for the family picture album. At which point I’d shook the winner’s hand and wandered off for more roast pig.

  I caught sight of Jas and Bish several times during the afternoon, the bodyguard torn between watching my daughter’s lovely, playful face, and scanning the crowd for possible assailants. The boy was smitten, and Jas was more than a little aware of him, but Bish was focused on Jasmine’s safekeeping, and the crowd itself was a sort of protection—any assailant would have a well-armed mob to contend with. Jas was as safe as she would have been back home in her barn. At least until nightfall when the dark took back a measure of protection.

  There were a few unpleasant moments in the long, noisy hours of the afternoon. Patty Gaskin, the sheriff’s wife, snubbed me at the cooler while serving up colas and canned beer. And later on, Matilda McConnell, the mayor’s wife, pretended that she hadn’t heard me greet her. These were reactions from so-called "ladies" of the old school who felt I should have stayed home in widow’s weeds, grieving with the blinds drawn. It was what I’d expected. Oddly, it didn’t hurt. In fact, it was curiously liberating, the silent condemnation freeing me from shackles I hadn’t known I wore. Independent and unrestrained, I wandered the grounds watching everything and everyone, engrossed in my unexpected freedom, pausing only to give out prizes.

  At five P.M., the prize I gave went to Jas for her bull’s-eye shot on the turkey-shaped target; she beat out twenty-three men and one woman in her category. Because it was Jas competing, I watched through the entire round, and as turkey-shoots go, it was exciting.

  Afterwards, Phillip Faulkenberry and Nana took the obligatory photos for us, Nana from a seat of honor with the Chadwicks. Jas smiled for the cameras as Bish stood in the crowd behind Nana, his face beaming. I liked that in the bodyguard—that he could watch Jas beat a bunch of men in a traditionally masculine sport and feel proud of her success. I also liked the fact that he stood behind Nana. There was something respectful in his choice of position. Then, blinded by the flash, I hugged my daughter and wandered back into the crowd.

  There were few of my darker-skinned cousins present, not that I had expected many. Topaz had once explained it: "You got a couple hundred white country boys loaded up with liquor and guns and all that’s missing is the white sheets. Not interested." ’Nuff said. Even Wicked was back at the farm, putting locks on the doors to the outbuildings except the barn.

  Alan Mathison won the last of the preliminary rounds, beating out Bret. I hadn’t bothered to check the list for any names except Jasmine’s, and I couldn’t hide my surprise as I handed Alan his prize. He, however, was as gracious as ever, accepting his turkey with a smile and an elegant little bow of his head. He stood out in the crowd of Dawkins County regulars like a Thoroughbred in a corral full of mules, though I was, of course, too polite to say so from the podium in front of a live mic. As the final round of the turkey-shoot began immediately after, I had no time to carry on a conversation. Instead I pressed his hand and said, "Good luck."

  "Wait for me after the shoot? I need to speak with you, if you have time."

  "I have time," I said, and fought down the silly little blush that threatened.

  "Good. Actually, you’ll have to wait anyway, to award my prize."

  "Think you’re going to win, do you?" I said, laughing at his audacity.

  "Of course. I always win." He covered his heart as if swearing fealty. "Always." His expression was one of wounded surprise and pretended hurt, as if I was supposed to know he was a winner. "And I’ll dedicate my win to you," he said, the phras
e sounding courtly.

  "Oh. Great. Beat my daughter and then credit me. Thanks but no thanks."

  With a roguish grin, Alan ran for the shooter’s box.The Champions Round consisted of eight participants, the winners of the preliminary rounds. Each shooter fired three shots in three rounds. The first round went to Alan, the clear winner. The second round winner was King Kirby. He’d missed in the first round, but settled down and shot steadily in the second. The third round was a dead heat with Kirby and Alan placing their shots so close they couldn’t be judged.

  The crowd cheered wildly, pressing close to the sidelines, half of them drinking beer, the other half sipping from bottles hidden in small brown paper bags. Fifty percent of the adult crowd was drunk as skunks, another five percent was only about half drunk, leaving only the churchgoers sober. I was glad I wasn’t working the ER tonight; there would surely be accidents when this crowd drove home. The highway patrol already had vehicles stationed at the intersections, waiting eagerly for DUIs or wrecks. They would give a lot of breathalyzers tonight.

  For the final round, bets were placed, most for Kirby, a known sharpshooter, though a few went for the new man who was cool and relaxed under pressure. After the shots were fired, Alan stood flatfooted, his hands steady, waiting for the judges to declare a winner, and I studied him. He was dressed in skintight faded jeans, worn cowboy boots, the heels rounded, and a faded denim shirt. No hunting boots or cowboy hat like the rest of the country crowd. Just Alan Mathison, smiling that subtle smile, his lips perpetually up turned at the corners.

  Not once did he glance my way. Alan kept his eyes on King Kirby, who was sipping a beer, an empty one by his side. After several minutes, the judges agreed to disagree, and admitted that they couldn’t choose a winner, a nondecision that riled the bet placers. To settle the crowd and satisfy the contestants, the final ruling was a one-on-one competition, another three-shot round to determine the contest winner.

  While the judges set up fresh targets and re-inspected the weapons and ammunition to make sure all was fair, the two contestants wandered off, Alan toward the extra Porta-Pot toilets set up in the darkness, Kirby to his truck. I chose not to follow either man, walking over to Nana to make sure her toes weren’t swelling beneath her cast, taking the opportunity to chat with Uncle Horace and Aunt Mosetta and hug all the cousins I hadn’t seen in days. I also took the time to reorganize my thoughts. A vision of chiseled lips turned up at the corners kept intruding. Even when I tried to replace their image with another, the smiling lips would reappear.

  I spoke with Mick Ethridge who told me a joke that both began and ended with the words "No shit, Ashlee. I tell you true." I accepted a hug from Irene and Buddy Rodgers whom I hadn’t seen since the night Alan’s wife died in the accident at Magnet Hole Creek. I stood for a while in silence with Bret McDermott, letting the evening breeze cool my face. I wondered if he had heard about the capture of Stinky, and if it worried him. And I wondered if the sheriff had been able to find out whom Dixon had been working for. I didn’t want it to be Bret.

  "Your little girl is a fine shot, Ashlee," he said.

  "Yes. She is." I picked out Jas in the crowd. Bish was leaning toward her, his head close to hers, listening, his eyes on the crowd. Jas laughed up into his face, her eyes sparkling. No trace of the attack she had suffered remained on her face. Even her swollen nose had gone down.

  "So is Mathison." Bret’s voice was conversational, with no emotional overtones.

  I flushed as I looked out over the shooting ground, remembering those lips. It wasn’t a comment I had expected. "Yes he is." My voice sounded wooden, but Bret seemed not to notice.

  "Ashlee, I know it’s too soon, but eventually you’ll want to . . . date again."

  I jerked my head to look at Bret, but now he was staring out over the crowd. I looked away, following Bret’s eyes, if not his line of thought. The sun was a burnt red ball in the west, lighting thin strips of clouds with feverish color. Long, diffuse shadows formed across the bare ground. Security lights began to glow overhead. "And, well," he said, "uh, Alan Math—"

  "Ladies and gentlemen," the words squealed through the PA system, interrupting Bret’s words. "The final round of the turkey-shoot is about to begin. Let me start this round by saying how much we appreciate the presence of each and every one of you here today. And although we’re still working on the final tally, we think we raised somewhere in the neighborhood of six thousand dollars today, enough to break ground on the Jack Davenport Rescue Squad Building."

  The crowd began clapping about halfway through Phillip’s little speech, drowning out any further attempts at conversation. I smiled up at Bret and shrugged, not real surprised when he didn’t smile back. Bret had obviously worked up the courage for a special little chat and didn’t appreciate being thwarted. With Dixon in jail, perhaps he had decided to approach things more directly. If he was Dixon’s boss. I tried to place Bret’s high Dawkins accent in with the stiff tones of the man who had called me once or twice. It didn’t quite fit, but then, Bret didn’t have to be alone in this, if he was involved at all.

  Phillip continued as the swell of foot stomping, rebel yells, and applause died down. "Now, if the judges are ready—and I can see they are—we’ll begin the dead-heat shoot-off between Alan Mathison, a newcomer, and King Kirby, last year’s winner. Ashlee Davenport, how ’bout coming up here to view the final round from the podium? Let’s give a big hand to a fine little lady. Ashlee, we’re all here because of Jack’s vision, Jack’s dream of the state’s best educated, best prepared, all volunteer Rescue Squad." There was more foot stomping and hollering, as I elbowed my way to the dais. Podium was a fancy term for four sawhorses overlaid with 2x10s and plywood. Although the platform wasn’t sturdy, I climbed up and stood with Phillip, waved to the crowd and refused the opportunity to make a speech.

  "Are the contestants ready?" Phillip bellowed through the mic. Along with the rest of the crowd, he had visited the beer keg, and though he handled himself well, he was two sheets to the wind and flushed with success. No one, including Jack, had ever raised six thousand dollars at a turkey-shoot. Not even close and Phillip had imbibed a self-congratulatory drink or two. "Are the contestants ready?" he boomed again. Children in the crowd raced and ran, the adults pressed closer to the ropes at the sides.

  At the shooters’ table, Alan flexed his fingers, bending them back from the palm. Rolled his head back and forth. Checked his weapon. I caught sight of Bret in the crowd, his eyes stormy. Beside Alan at the long table, was King Kirby’s prize 12-gauge and an open box of ammo. But no Kirby. A strange disquiet rippled through the crowd. Alan stretched his shoulders, his eyes on the targets fluttering in the breeze. I caught sight of Bret again, looking around.

  "Will the final contestant please take his place at the shooters table? The words echoed through the crowd, vanishing over the treetops. But still no King Kirby. Alan looked around, met my eyes and lifted his brows, as if to say, "What now?" I shrugged back.

  From the row of pickups, a child yelled, thin voice triumphant. "Here he is! Here he is! I fount him!" It was the same tone of voice a child might have used had he discovered the prize egg at an Easter Egg hunt. Kirby was stumbling, confused, bleary eyed, and he didn’t smell too sweet either as he made his way to the shooters’ table. Former appearances to the contrary, King Kirby was drunk as a skunk. He had been discovered beside his truck, most of a beer spilled down his shirt, passed out cold. He couldn’t stand up straight and kept reaching up with both hands, holding his head. I sympathized with the headache. I knew what a glass too many could do to an alcohol-induced headache, and Kirby’s was clearly caused by more than one too many.

  Half the crowd was highly amused at Kirby’s attempts to find his weapon. Others, ones who had bet he would win the overall championship round had other reactions. None pleasant. When it became clear that King Kirby, the county favorite, could not safely compete, the judges halted the competition, awarded Alan the first place g
ift card to Puckey’s and gave Kirby’s wife, Arnette, the second place prize. It was an ignominious ending to an otherwise successful day.

  The crowd thinned out rapidly after Kirby’s downfall and I headed for the Jeep where I sat in the dark sipping a cup of lukewarm coffee, one brewed early and parboiled the rest of the day. It sat heavily on my pork-filled stomach.

  Jas and Bish met me in the gravel lot, her upper arm gripped firmly in his hand as he scanned the crowd for attackers. I kicked open the Jeep door and slid my feet to the ground in one smooth motion. The cab light and the metallic sound brought Bish to a halt. Instantly his hand moved to his left shoulder and the gun that rested there. It returned to his side the moment he recognized me. My daughter’s protector was nervous. Good. Scowling, Bish loaded us all in the Jeep and started the ignition. It was impertinent to assume he would drive, but I didn’t really care as long as he kept my daughter safe.

  Alan appeared in the headlights, waving an arm. In the other was a shrink-wrapped turkey. Bish braked and rolled down the window. "Fancy shooting, Mr. Mathison," he said. "Congratulations."

  "Thanks. Too bad it wasn’t against sober competition, but that’s the result when you mix liquor and country boys. My daddy was a country boy, so I know. Sorry, do I know you?"

  Bish stuck a hand out the window and shook Alan’s. "Bish. Friend of the family."

  "Nice to meet you Bish. Ashlee, I hope you’ll allow me to donate a smoked turkey to the next Chadwick family reunion. I hate smoked meat." He opened the door, passing the bird across Bish to me. It was too big for my lap. It needed its own seat. Seatbelt, too. In the event of an accident, Alan’s gift would go sailing through the windshield like a cannon ball. "Ashlee, when it’s convenient, I need to discuss the Taylor development with you. We’ve run into the same kind of groundwater problems that Davenport Hills is having and I’d like to hear your input and how Jack handled the permit problems."