Ashes Remain

by Alethea Stauron

  Cowboys.

  Real cowboys.

  With every sidestep announcing a proud birthright of what they are; who they are and what they believe in. Men who teach their sons an honest trade of the land during the day like their fathers before them. Their skin’s rough over hands. Shade already blooms on grinning chins where they had shaved earlier. From the look of their hats, they gave it a quick shake after doing daily labor among livestock. Caked with thin evidence of soil. The same evidence giving away a history of greasy heavy tools before putting cowboy rims back on for a well-deserved night out.

  The women appear softer than the cowboys. They make their feminine lines on the floor. Every step guided by the men’s upper body muscle with memorized movements, as if every lady is protected by them. Among the girl’s smiles, they wear true ladies western gear, matching their dates on purpose. Simple. And, looking the way it ought with a burst of color here and there. Their pants have no pockets. Worn only for special occasions, leaving work at home. She notices their hair wasn’t been done at a salon. It’s all tied back in ponytails, braided to the side, or left straight. A couple women wear ribbons to match the color of plaid their man wears.

  The look is natural. Common sense for someone in the country. Feels like she knows them.

  Josephine imagines who they are. She imagines them living simple lives — rough, but simple. She thinks of homemade apple pie, bread dough rising over the stove with a red and white checkered rag. The men, she memorizes their strong upper bodies from toil. During the day, they must gather in a stall helping with the birth of a foal, or tagging a yearling calf so it won’t be stolen from their income. She imagines them fixing a wire fence with large leather gloves, or wiping their brows with oil stained hands. A hard life. A simple, yet, hard life.

  This must be their only break, she decides.

  Their only break between now until Sunday morning, when their hats sit beside them on a pew. The pastor’s probably one of them. He brings his wife’s squash casserole over after hanging their hats and gear for the day. He plays a round of cards with his muddy deacons around a handmade picnic table. Freshly laid produce sliced neatly from the garden by their wives sitting on a Lazy Susan.

  Her eyes sparkle with every thought of real-life. Life that’s been hidden from most of society, including her. As if she stumbled upon a backstage pass to see people acting like people. Like her grandfather must have lived. The way her grandfather would’ve acted, cutting loose the troubles of the world for a few hours. Not at all what she’s seen on television. They’re completely normal people. Hard-working, until, time to play. “This is amazing,” she said, barely loud enough for her to hear. But she said it anyhow.

  Drake walks pass a large wooden counter toward the bar. The bartender eyeballs him, waiting to hear orders from a regular. Drake points to his table in a back corner, “Behind the pillar. I want two orders of each,” holding up two fingers, “Two pitchers of Guinness beer, two double shots of tequila, and two orders of buffalo wings. That table over there with my hot sexy date.”

  “Another girl this weekend? Wasn’t it twins a couple weeks ago?”

  “None of your business if you want a tip.” He takes a step back, fingers still up, “Remember… two of each. Hurry it up and mind your own.”

  The server nods, “Got it,” and runs the tap into a plastic pitcher. A dark line of draft pours, making a thin foam race toward the top.

  Drake strolls back toward the table, soon followed by a bartender and helper. They carry ice cold glasses with a thin layer of frost. And two pitchers of Guinness draft weighing trays down on their hands.

  “Oh, yeah,” Drake said with a singsong voice. His eyes brightened by flashing lights, gazing at brim-filled jugs. He pats the shoulders of each server, “Good tips tonight. Look at that color.” He waves his hands, getting Josephine’s attention, signaling toward dark containers, sitting center on the table. “Nothing but the best served here, Jojo. These guys are professionals in service.”

  The bartender marches off. The bartender’s helper takes one step with a gesture back, “Your wings’ll be out shortly,” and walks away.

  Drake glances at Josephine, “You got ADD?” But her eyes are busy reading everyone as if there’s a test later. “All new for you, huh?” He studies her body, knowing she can’t hear him. He changes his position and stares at her glass, then over at her. He closes in against her ear, “Jojo?”

  She jerks back, as if surprised she could make any of his words out. “I can’t hear you very well.”

  “Just where we’re sitting. The next few songs and it’ll slow down. You get used to it after a…” and pauses. He makes broad gestures with his hands around her face, “You’ve got some’n on ya.”

  She touches her cheek, “What?”

  He says, “I think it’s lipstick or some’n. You might wanna clean it quickly before we get to dancing.”

  She asks, “That way,” pointing toward the word Dames on a sign.

  He nods, “Yep. Not the one that says Dudes. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Josephine carries a self-conscious hand cover to the bathroom. Just as she vanishes around the corner, an older lady arrives at his table. “Y’all want anything else,” she said. “We carry Dublin Dr Pepper now. Made with real sugar.”

  “We’re fine,” he twitches his brow, “We’re waiting on the rest.”

  “Just alcohol? Y’all are gonna get really thirsty.”

  “I’m count’n on it.”

  The lady grabs one of the cold pitchers and tilts it over his glass. Drake holds his hand out, covering the rim. “No, ma’am. I do this part, sweetheart,” he said.

  She uprights the pitcher, “I’m sorry.”

  “Nobody touches my beer. We’ll be fine until our real drinks come out.”

  “Won’t happen again. They just put your buffalo wings on. Be about six or seven minutes.” She walks off.

  “Much obliged.”

  Drake slides his slim container from his pants. He quickly empties it out and drops the mixture to fill the bottom of one of the glasses. Less than a few seconds and he’s pouring draft straight over it. He uses two straws left on the table and mixes his cocktail well. Like magic, there’s no difference between glasses or flaky grit. He slides the new tampered, frosted glass over to her spot, “Party time,” he smiled.

  Josephine circles around the restroom area. She weaves in and out of thirsty traffic toward the bar, around a couple tables and sits down. She hunches toward Drake, inches from her mixed drink and trying to get his attention. “Hey.”

  He smiles over, “You call me?”

  “Yeah. I went to the Dames. I think it’s nothing,” she stretches her jaw out, “I couldn’t find anything. Is it still there?”

  He vaguely studies, “No,” and shrugs his shoulder, “Sorry. It must’ve been lights or some’n. No bother… you look great.”

  A server carries the trays out toward them. “Here we go,” he said as the music was dying into the next song. Drake signals toward the platters, “Screw any other place darl’n. These are the best wings in town. They make their own ranch here and everything.”

  She reaches for a celery stick. “Looks good.”

  “Wait,” he touches her hand, preventing her from grabbing a bite to eat. He lifts his glass, covering the food with his other hand. “That’s not how you do it on your birthday. You’ve gotta chug your birthday beer first to get the full effect,” gesturing toward her mixed drink for a toast. “To getting the best of twenty-one tonight.”

  Josephine raises her, over gestured, glass for a quick toast, “I guess.” Her lips press against the rim and frost disappears with the warmth of her skin.

  He cheers louder than before, “Birthday girl! Chug. Chug. Chug!” She uprights the glass, hardly able to finish beyond a few exaggerated gulps. He says, “No. You’re not a quitter.” He boosts the bottom of the mug, tilting it back to pour in her mouth, “Don’t give up on me.” He continues cheerin
g her on as she chugs, helping her to speed the dark liquid along, “You’re gonna live twenty-one tonight.” Her glass is nearly empty, “Whew,” he hollers as loud as the drummer on stage. “That a girl. That frosty drink tastes good. Don’t it?”

  “Tastes like unsweet tea,” she brushes her tongue inside her mouth, “There’s an aftertaste.”

  “You saying you ain’t old enough for it?”

  “No. It’s not that bad,” proudly said. She’s watching him finish off his drink for a few minutes. During those minutes of him taking his time she makes faces at his losing the first race. He cracks a smile after another moment or two. She asks, “What are you smiling at, slowpoke?” She shakes her head and eyeballs the buffalo wings. “Oh, yeah. I love wingsss…” and hits her all of the sudden when she leans forward.

  Time changes…

  seconds…

  or maybe minutes pass. She can’t tell. A strange warmth follows a relaxing haze making the room appear slower. A lot slower.

  “Let’s not eat yet,” Drake helps her stand. She drops her celery stick as he continues, “You gotta get the full effect.”

  Josephine knows the alcohol might be interfering, but it’ll simmer down. Not too much for her to handle at the moment. Only one glass. Beer isn’t as strong as red wine. She had red wine not too long ago. I’m not a little… weenie… whimper… wimp, she struggles thinking. Whatever you call ‘em.

  Drake leads her over for some country dancing across heavily used wooden flooring. His hands clasped to each side of her hips, “Like this,” moving her body with his, as a song finishes up. He’s caressing her back by the time a slower song plays. “I’m gonna take care of you tonight,” his words slithered, and pressed against her. As close as he can be, speaking in her ear, “That’s it… this is how you dance. No one will cut in here.”

  It’s a mild buzz, she thinks, nothing I can’t handle. Kinda relaxing. Soothing even.

  Drake leans against her hairline, “I’m gonna teach you how to dance properly. Like a real Texan cowgirl.”

  Am I nodding? She’s confused about why everything seems so slow. So muted. Hard to know for sure, “Yes,” easily said. What did I just say, she wonders? Josephine wipes at her eyes but the haze is sticking like astigmatism. His dance training blurs together with time, helping to distract disorientation. Nothing feels wrong. But everything feels different. “Not so loud in here anymore,” she said.

  Drake smiles a small nod forward, “That’s right. Like I told you earlier.” He’s supporting her firmly, “Move like this,” testing a pliable posture. “Excuse my belt buckle,” and he’s gazing at heavy eyes, “It’s hard down there.”

  She doesn’t flinch. She’s too busy thinking over what the idea of thinking could be like, if she were actually thinking. Or so she thought.

  ◆◆◆

  A couple double shots of tequila, garnished with lime slices, arrive at their table as the song ends. Drake glances over. “Come on,” he said. She’s easily pulled by him, and he continues, “The best part’s here.”

  Josephine plops down, “I don’t know. I need to get my bearings for a moment.” Her head is definitely heavier than when she first came in. “Just slide it over.”

  He lifts her hips up from the chair, “No. No. No. You have to have your birthday tequila standing up. We can’t sit during this part.”

  She focuses on standing straight. A little wobblier than she was a few moments ago and feeling the need to say, “Sorry,” defending herself, “I guess I’m lightheaded… from getting up so fast.” She rests one palm on the table and grips the chair. “I think I need water.” She focuses on his movement.

  He delivers her drink, “This’ll help. You’re a Texan cowgirl. Twenty-one now,” gesturing at her glass. “Tequila has to be drunk in a certain way. This isn’t a martini. You chug it while standing.”

  “It’s small,” her eyes travel inward. She sees two glasses trying to hold it carefully. By golly, it never took so much effort to make a glass hold still. “Why’s it so little?”

  “You’re not gonna hurt my feelings, are you?”

  “I don’t…” and halfway through saying it, she takes a moment to remember what she was defending herself about, “I wanna —

  “Then don’t hurt my feelings.” Drake angles his glass, signaling her to follow, “Come on, cowgirl.” He swallows the liquor down. “I’m not asking you to do anything I’m not willing to do myself. Trust me.”

  Without trying, her wobbly body slants the glass. Before she knows it, she’s grabbing her neck, “Augh, I can’t breathe.”

  “Means it’s good stuff,” he pats her back, “Dancing’s gonna be fun now.”

  “I was thirsty.”

  “That’ll pass.”

  She’s leaned over the table, “I don’t think I like tequila. It’s… there’s… something —

  “Hurry,” he refills her beer, “this’ll get rid of the burn and quench your thirst.”

  Josephine washes half of it down with nearly one swing. She thinks her thirst is gone, “I…” placing her glass back down, “can’t… anymore,” trying to follow him with her eyes swirling, “Drake.”

  “A big girl like you,” he lifts the glass to her lips, “this is nothing.”

  And…

  the words echoed throughout her ear, This is nothing, he said. But feels like she’s in a tunnel. Like the moment is ever going. Ever recycling itself. And he’s saying the phrase more than once, echoing through her mind. She only knows he’s not repeating it when, “We’re not done yet,” he said.

  She places her glass down for a second time, “I feel… I feel…” and her knees forget how to bend. Afraid she might just lie down, “I gotta sit.”

  “No. Don’t leave me hanging. We can’t miss this song. It’s an icon on your birthday.”

  She’s dipping a celery stick into ranch, “I need to eat something. I don’t feel real,” when she meant to say right.

  “That’ll pass. Trust me.” He takes her hand, helping her to stare at a green sliver of celery as if her hands have a hole in them, dropping ranch covered food on the table. He says, “You can’t eat right now. Let’s dance now and work up an appetite.”

  Guinness draft is starting to slide on its own, without moving. She closes her eyes to push it down.

  The room…

  she can almost hear it circling around her like on a merry-go-round, objects are still moving. “Drake—

  “This is a good dancing song.”

  “Waaaaait.” Her words slurred, feeling as though it took her six minutes to say.

  But he says, “Come on.” He escorts her across scratchy wood for a second time, holding her closely. “I got you. Remember? It’ll wear off. You can trust me.”

  “I feel weird,” she mumbled. Her head falls across his shoulder, “think I’m dreaming.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m your friend.”

  “Uh… huh,” her eyes become weighted curtains, allowing her to see different scenes. Each one different from the last.

  Drake places his leg between hers, lifting her butt in his palms, “Does that feel good?”

  “Uh… huh,” feeling nothing.

  Drake asks, “You like that?”

  “Mmmm,” murmured by intermittent paralyzed lips.

  “You want me to lay you down for the night?”

  Josephine feels asleep already. “Uh… huh,” and her body goes limp.

  Drake shoves Josephine’s limp body into the truck. “I hate telling you this, doll face, but you ain’t gonna remember the Drake ride you’re about to go on.” He climbs in the driver seat, “But I will.”

  He shifts gears on a back road and takes a sharp turn, making her fall onto his lap. He glances down, “Can’t wait to get started, huh?” Creases of her breasts cause his hands to slide down toward her skirt. He’s leaning as far as he can but he can’t reach. “Oh, well,” squeezing under her bra, “Won’t matter pretty soon.” Drake pops
in a couple more pills, crunching them like candy in his mouth. “Tonight’s gonna be a hell of a ride.”

  ◆◆◆

  Drake drags her to the couch and her body flops down over cushions. She has one leg hanging off and one arm thrown above her head. “I’ll resituate you…” he said as his body bounces in place, pulling off his second boot. He tosses the leather behind him, hitting a wooden banister with a clang. “… give me a minute.” He struggles with buzzed fingers around his belt buckle and stumbles backward with a chuckle. “I guess I had a little too much too, birthday girl.” Not long and he hovers over her, pulling his belt through loops. “I’m plenty sober for now.” His belt chucks backward and tangles over the handrail. “I tried doing this with you awake. This is your fault really. You wanna do it this way,” and undoes his pants. He slides each side of the zipper flap open before climbing over.

  Drake grabs skirt, lifting denim up her thighs and throws her legs open. The movement is so violent, he nearly falls over her completely. He’s licking across her neck as invasive hands slide down and adjusts himself,

  but

  she’s wearing panties. “Dammit.” Drake races with sitting up. He pulls out his pocket knife and rips and tears at a cotton boundary. He puts his knife back and yanks her half-cut panties downward.

  She mumbles, “Lucius… careful, baby.”

  Lucius takes his fist from his mouth eight feet away, putting back his long sword, deciding not to decapitate Drake on top of her. He takes a deep and thoughtful breath, restraining what’s left. Drake inches her stretched panties above her knees. Material he failed to cut, clicks while ripping them, tearing them completely on one side.

  A dark shadow rises from behind Drake. A fist bolts high in the air.

  Drake readjusts himself, lowering his thighs with a release of air toward her.