by Ashley Smith
He was standing between the dining and living areas, looking around. After a second or two he went and sat down on the brown leather sofa against the wall to my left. That was a piece of furniture the guy who lived with me had left behind, and sitting up on the back of it was that big mirror I hadn’t gotten around to hanging yet. The wood coffee table with a light gray, mosaic tile top belonged to the same guy. The patchwork rug in front of the sofa was mine; so were the two cherry end tables on either side of the sofa and the matching lamps. Next to the lamps on each table I had set a pillar candle. I always liked to keep things evened out.
Wanting to keep an eye on Brian, I walked directly across the room to the long bar separating the kitchen from the living area. The bright overhead light in the kitchen and that little lamp by the sink were the only lights on in this part of the house. I turned and faced Brian where he was sitting on the far left side of the sofa, and I leaned on the end of the bar—it was more like a long half-wall with a ledge about eight inches wide—pushing aside a big silver picture frame of Paige so I didn’t knock it down. I put the ashtray, lighter, and my cigarettes next to the picture on the ledge.
“So,” he asked, crossing a leg over one knee. “What do you like to do?”
What do I like to do? I guess he’s really trying to learn me here. Well, I’m all for it. I’ll just keep opening up my life to him. “I like to make things,” I said. “And fix things and paint and all that kind of stuff. You know, artsy stuff.” I pointed toward the front of the living room, to his left, where Paige’s massive, solid wood toy box was sitting in front of my long, skinny picture table and two windows.
“I painted that toy box right there. A friend of mine made it and I painted it.” The toy box had every color on it that I could find. I had painted checks on the sides and thick diagonal stripes on the top. I really didn’t know how that one guy and I ever moved the box in here. Even when it was empty I had to get on the floor and push it with my feet.
“And I covered this bench right here.” Now I was pointing down at a whitewashed bench with pedestal feet right in front of the bar. For the cushion I had chosen this sort of fancy beige fabric with textured swirls.
“And you know all that white furniture in my bedroom?” He nodded. “I painted all that—the dressers and nightstands. And I spray-painted the hardware. I’m going to paint that room a summer green.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m planning to paint all the rooms in here. See, in my old apartment I had color everywhere. I painted my dining room red. My bedroom was this golden straw color, and everything I put in that room, like my comforter and stuff, was burgundy. And then the bathroom—well—that took me two weeks. I was painting these burgundy-and-gold stripes on the walls using a ruler to draw them, and it just took me forever.”
I pulled out a cigarette now and lit it, laying the pack and lighter back on the bar.
“You sure do smoke a lot,” he said suddenly. Well, that takes some nerve, dude, after you just snorted that line in there.
I rolled my eyes. “Believe me, after all the dope and stuff I’ve done, smoking’s not the worst thing I could do.”
I took a long drag and looked over at that big eight-by-ten of Paige in the silver frame next to the ashtray. She was maybe three years old there. It was her school picture for Mother’s Day Out. They had her sitting against a white backdrop and holding a white rose. She was looking down at it, and she looked kind of sad. She was still living with me then, and my mom told me that her little face was starting to wear the same expression as mine. And I was sad—man, was I sad and miserable.
“You know,” I told Brian, “I really wanted to go to decorating school when I first moved here to Atlanta—that was my plan. But my mom’s husband discouraged me. He said there were so many interior decorators here, I’d never make it. So I tossed that idea. That’s why I’m in medical assistant school now. I figure I can go into sports medicine and get a good-paying job and support Paige that way. You know, have a career.”
Brian just sat on the couch, watching me and listening. He didn’t interrupt. He seemed to be paying attention to what I was telling him and maybe getting to know me a little bit. It was as if he had never gone in there and snorted that second line. He was just as chilled out as before. And still pretty melancholy. He was probably just completely wiped out. Who knew how many hours he’d been awake in jail before he killed those people and started running?
“Mack and I,” I began again—I was just going to talk the guy’s ears off if he would let me. Whatever it took. Because I was walking out that door at 9:30. I was getting out of this apartment. “Well, Mack—he had a remodeling business. He was really, really good at it.”
I remembered what my family had said about Mack shortly after we were married. Once they started getting to know him and seeing how smart he was, they called him “the brain surgeon of the remodeling field.” Like the doctor of all doctors. The master of all. Mack could just walk into a room and picture something and say, “This is how it’s gonna be.” And it would turn out to be wonderful.
“We remodeled his parents’ trailer,” I told Brian. “I mean, from top to bottom—we ripped everything out of the whole entire trailer and put all new stuff back in. We ripped the flooring out, put in new appliances, redid the walls, painted everything, put in new windows. Mack retarred the roof. We just redid the whole thing.
“And then, when we had a house of our own, finally—I mean, we were renting it—but when we had that house, we painted all the rooms, and I painted the furniture for Paige’s room. We put new floors in. It was like, Mack and I—we worked side by side.”
I remembered what Mack used to say about me, bragging on me to his friends: “My wife can be one of the guys.” That was a bond between us.
“Sometimes,” I said, “when Mack was out on remodeling jobs, if he needed help, I’d go be his helper. I knew I didn’t have to do it or anything—he just wanted me to stay home and be his wife—but I’m one of those people who needs to be doing something all the time or I’ll go crazy.”
I thought back to those days—dropping Paige off at her day school and showing up on Mack’s job ready to work. He always had a specific way he liked things done. He would show me exactly what to do, and I’d be like, “Well, you’re not showing me something I don’t already know.” But if I didn’t do things Mack’s way, then he just got mad. And I wasn’t going to set him off. I knew all about that—I’d learned to run away from that boy’s anger, not at it.
“I was probably a ‘ride or die chick’ for Mack,” I told Brian. “You know that Tupac Shakur song that says ‘ride or die’? Well, that used to be one of our songs. Mack would tell me, ‘I need a ride or die chick.’ And I just did everything with him. Whatever he did, I was gonna do it. I had to be his wife. That’s something I always did, was put him first. Even if it wasn’t good, like with doing drugs together and stuff, I always put him first. I did what he did. That’s just the kind of wife I was.”
I was still working on the same cigarette and leaning against the bar, watching Brian. I liked standing there. I liked being able to see everything in the room and keep an eye on him. I felt safer that way, and I was too restless to sit right that minute.
“I mean, Mack and I were a little unsteady there for a while,” I said. “Sometimes he would get mad—or I would set him off—and he’d just start beating and whaling on me.” I was remembering the night Mack knocked me cold-slap-out in front of the club and left me there on the sidewalk. It was our last New Year’s Eve together before he died, and we were fighting. Mack was drunk and angry. That’s how it always was—until that very next morning when everything changed; when something clicked in Mack’s mind and the fighting stopped for good.
“We didn’t have an easy marriage,” I went on. “But I loved Mack with all my heart, and I was going to do whatever had to be done to make it work for Paige. And really, both of us felt that way. Because of the way we grew up. I mean, I didn�
�t have a daddy around. Mack had a really hard childhood and stuff. So we were gonna get it right, you know, get it right for her.”
Brian didn’t say a word. He uncrossed his legs. He looked at me. Wasn’t he getting it about Paige now? Couldn’t he see there was just no way I was leaving that child after everything I’d put into the marriage—and put into my life—to get it right?
“Mack and I were a team,” I said to him. “We both had jobs that we would do. He would go make the money. Then he would bring me his check and I would pay all the bills. He could always count on me for organization and order like that.
“And I always cooked for him. Always. I cooked him breakfast. I made his lunch before he left every morning. And I had dinner ready the minute he walked in the door. I mean the minute he walked in. Sometimes Paige and I were there sitting at the table waiting for him to just sit down and start eating.”
I could see Mack now, lying in the bed on Saturday mornings with Paige in his arms and the TV up on the dresser set to cartoons. That was how it was. Mack and I would have our Friday night out—we always had our Friday night. I would go meet his mom at the Bi-Lo halfway to their trailer in the country and drop Paige off with her. Then Mack and I would go out and party with our friends.
At about three or four in the morning we’d roll in. Then I’d sleep a few hours and drive out to the country to get Paige. I’d bring her home and stick her right in bed with Mack so they could watch cartoons. And I’d go to the kitchen and start breakfast—bacon, eggs, pancakes, whatever Mack wanted. That was my job. That was the way we started our weekends. And that was how it was supposed to be the morning after Mack died. I was just hours away from going to get Paige. Hours away from putting her in bed with him and cooking everybody Saturday breakfast.
I remembered thinking about all of that while Mack was stretched out in that parking lot hooked up to the paramedics’ machine. “If he could just hold on a few more hours,” I kept thinking as I watched the paramedics work. “Just a few more hours and he’ll get to see Paige. I’m supposed to go get her and bring her home. We’re supposed to have breakfast.”
I looked over at Brian now, sitting there quietly on the couch. He was just letting me talk, one thing leading to the next—I was running my mouth like Mack used to say: “If you don’t quit running your mouth, I’m gonna shut it for you.”
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I was remembering everything again. The evil in that parking lot. How wrong it all was. How it wasn’t supposed to happen. Not then. Not when things were finally getting better with Mack and me. Didn’t they understand? Mack was supposed to make it. For us. For Paige. “We’re sorry,” the EMT worker said. “He’s gone.” Gone? But he didn’t even get to say goodbye to her.
Just then Brian stood up and stretched. “Is that the remote?” he asked, pointing. He was looking at the TV sitting on top of the tall chest of drawers on the wall just opposite him. The remote was sitting beside it.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, putting out my cigarette. “Yeah, but it doesn’t work. You have to turn it on at the set. But, sure. Go ahead. Turn on the TV if you want.”
18 the news
I stood at the bar by the kitchen watching Brian. He was standing right in front of the TV flipping the channels. He looked very alert, as if searching for something specific. Then I heard it. His name. On the TV. Just like I had heard it before I left my house for cigarettes, although I wasn’t really paying much attention then. “Brian Nichols,” the announcer said. Brian Nichols.
Brian turned up the volume and went back to where he was sitting on the couch. He had set the TV on channel 33, CNN. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There he was, coming out of the courthouse it looked like, in that black suit, going down some stairs. He was loose. Running around like that. And no one was catching him. I couldn’t believe it.
Then they started talking about the people he had killed at the courthouse. Showing photographs. I just stood there frozen. Oh, God, help me. This is—This is—Lord, what am I in right here? This is so not good.
I turned and glanced at Brian. He looked as scared as I felt right then. Okay, I’m not going to let him see me scared. I’m just going to watch this TV and focus on it and stay calm.
I knew I had to hold it together. I couldn’t let Brian start thinking I was against him—that I saw him as some terrible person like they were saying on the news. He wouldn’t trust me then. He wouldn’t let me go. And so far I thought I’d done a pretty good job of not making him feel like a criminal. I mean, he had tied me up. And he had the guns and everything. But basically I had tried to treat him like a normal person, kind of like one of my friends—telling him about my life; reading to him out of my book. And I thought it was working. I thought I was gaining his trust.
Thinking back over the hours, I couldn’t believe I’d even survived this long. How long have we been in here? How long have I been doing this? I guessed it was going on 5:00 a.m., and I was starting to feel exhausted. It just had to be God keeping me from totally freaking out. “Ashley,” I could imagine God saying, “you can’t lose it now. Just be you. You’ll be all right if you just be yourself.” Somehow I’d kept it together till now. Whatever time it was, I knew there had to be several hours left until 9:30. So I had to keep going. I had to stay focused. And I kept my eyes on the TV.
The news flashed back to that footage of Brian Nichols in the black suit escaping out of what I guessed was the courthouse. I could feel my heart beating faster in my chest. How is this guy sitting in my apartment right now? Why my apartment? This is crazy. I tried to focus on the whole miracle thing again and God having a purpose. Maybe that would give him some hope. And give me some hope.
So I said, “Look, Brian. What’s the deal here? I mean, how did you get here? How did you make it?”
Honestly, I just didn’t understand. The chances of him (a) making it out of that courthouse and (b) getting to my apartment were just—well, it was just incredible. I mean, how did he get out of there with all those police officers around? They didn’t shoot at him or anything. They didn’t even see him. Surely when all the commotion started inside the building, someone told the cops outside. Why didn’t anybody see him when he ran out?
“So you came down those steps and no one saw you?” I asked him. “How could no one see you? I mean, you could’ve been shot and killed right there. All those people were around. And you didn’t even get hurt and now you’re sitting here in my apartment?” I took out another cigarette and lit it, standing up straight next to the bar to face him. I could see the TV screen in the mirror propped on the back of the sofa just above his head.
“Dude, you totally escaped from jail and that’s not a freakin’ miracle to you? I mean, if you don’t think it’s a total miracle that you’re sitting here alive right now, then I don’t know what to tell you.” I kind of studied him for a minute. What’s he thinking, looking at all this stuff?
Brian was just leaning back, staring at the TV screen. His eyes were wide open. His mouth was hanging open a little. He sat there looking scared. Like a little boy. Like he was in shock maybe. I couldn’t even imagine. “Yeah,” he said then, not moving. “Yeah, I guess it was God or something.” He was talking so low I could barely hear him over the TV.
I wanted to get off my feet, so, picking up the ashtray, I walked around the coffee table to the other side of the couch, the far right corner, and sat down. Then I reached back and pulled up my jeans to keep my underwear from showing, and I kind of sat with my lower back pressed into the leather in the corner. I really wanted to just change clothes, or at least put on my sweater; but I was afraid I would draw attention to myself that way. My sweater was probably still in a heap by the front door. And I didn’t want him walking in on me or anything if I tried to go and change.
But Brian wasn’t paying attention to me right then. He was sitting forward on the couch now, with his elbows on his knees, staring a hole through that TV screen.
I he
ard the news anchor say something about a car they had found —something about a car Brian Nichols had ditched somewhere.
“Yeah,” Brian said, still looking at the TV. “Yeah, because I took MARTA after that.”
To me this was just getting more amazing by the second. I didn’t know anything about these details. “Okay,” I said to him. “So you got out of the courthouse, then you got on a MARTA train? Without anyone catching you? And you made it out here to Duluth to an apartment I just moved into two days ago? What are the chances, dude? You’ve got to see God’s hand in this.”
I couldn’t get past it—the whole thing. I just know this is God right here. It has to be. But then what did it mean? So God brought the guy to my apartment. Okay. Why? Maybe part of it was to see what I would do with those drugs. Maybe it was something else. I didn’t know. I guess I’m just hanging onto you, God, and waiting. That’s all I know to do. I mean, this is way bigger than me. Way bigger. I figured all I could do was keep doing what I was doing—try to get through to this guy so he would stop running and hurting people, try to gain his trust, and wait it out till 9:30.
I looked over at the TV and heard the anchor say something about Brian Nichols and a deputy. He had shot a deputy, a woman, the anchor said.
Right then Brian jumped up and started yelling at the screen. “I didn’t shoot that lady! I hit her over the head!” He was looking at the TV like he was fed up, amazed, angry—something. Then he turned to me again with his eyes wide open. “I hope she lives,” he said. I saw that same fear in his eyes. That same look of almost panic.
“Please let her live,” he said now, looking up at the ceiling and raising his hands. “I’m sorry! Please forgive me.” He’s asking God to forgive him. He’s doing it. This means something. I know this is big—for both of us.
At that moment I slid onto the floor, got on my knees, and faced the sofa. Thank you, God. Just thank you for getting me this far.
