by Penny Reid
“Since I saw you.”
“Since you saw me?” My echo was a squeak.
“Yes.” He admitted, stalking closer. His eyes glinted in the sparse light offered by a distant flash of lightning. They were focused with heated intensity on my mouth.
I sought to clarify his meaning. “Since you saw me tonight?”
“No. Since I first saw you. Since I first laid eyes on you and felt sorry for every beautiful thing that was made no longer resplendent—nullified by your being.”
I didn’t breathe for ten seconds. When I did, the air left my lungs in a whoosh, and with it departed my peace of mind.
“Fuck….” I said, because what I was feeling deserved a remarkably harsh expletive. “You really are a poet.”
“Ash….”
I shook my head and closed my eyes because the memory of our damn hot perfect kiss, the vision of him standing in front of me, the whisper of his delectably distressing admission, became too much for my little heart to handle.
“No more talking,” I begged. “I think your words aren’t safe for me to hear.”
They’re weapons, I thought, as sure as a martial artist’s fists are weapons. With enough use, practice, and honing of skill, words were the weapons of choice used by exceptional writers and poets. Minds can be changed, hearts can be lost and broken, souls can be surrendered given the right words.
Or the wrong ones.
“No more talking,” he repeated, closer than I’d expected. His breath fell over my cheek and his hands slid around my waist, pressing my body to his. “No more talking.” He said again, this time as a whisper against my neck.
“Drew….”
“Shh.” His hand lifted and cupped my cheek, his thumb caressing my bottom lip.
I was mixed up and turned inside out. I didn’t know what to say or do or how to move forward from this labyrinth of my own making.
So I blurted, “Can we forget this happened?” I didn’t try to disguise the desperation in my voice. “Can’t we call it a mistake?”
He was quiet for a long time, holding me in a full-body embrace, his hand caressing my cheek and then smoothing its way down my shoulder and arm. His fingers found mine, brought my wrist to his lips, and kissed it, his breath and beard tickling the sensitive skin.
Then he pressed my open palm to his chest.
At last, he said, “No, Sugar. You know I’m no good at pretending.”
I released a shaky breath and gripped the front of his shirt. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”
“Don’t you?”
“I live in Chicago.”
“I know.”
“I have a life there.”
“I know.”
“Your life is here.”
“Yes, Ash, I know.” He bent and kissed my neck, made me shiver.
“When all this is over,” I swallowed the last word, because over really meant when Momma dies, “I’m leaving. I’m leaving and I’m not coming back.”
“Sugar, I know all this.”
“I don’t want either of us to get hurt,” I pleaded, but I wasn’t sure whether I was pleading with Drew or myself.
“Nothing you can do about that.” He nipped my jaw then kissed it. “You underestimate how deeply you cut when your intentions carry no knives.”
Drew walked me back to the den, holding my hand as we navigated the dark, then he left me with a quick and impulsive kiss.
I watched his form depart, listened for the sound of him reclaiming his spot on the couch, and waited several minutes more. I don’t know what I was listening for, but soon the only sound was my own breathing and heartbeat.
Finally, I ducked into the den and my cot. But my mother stopped me by calling out my name.
“Ash, is that you?”
I crossed to her bed and reached for her hand. Her eyes were still closed.
“Yes. It’s me.”
“What’s wrong, baby? Can’t you sleep?”
I opened my mouth to say that I was just using the bathroom, but I stopped. I didn’t know how much time she had left, and I didn’t want to spend any of it pacifying her or being polite just for politeness’s sake.
“Momma, how did you meet Drew?”
Momma laughed lightly and gave my hand a feeble squeeze. “So…thoughts of Andrew are keeping you up?”
I swallowed uncomfortably. “Honestly, the rain woke me up. But I think thoughts of Andrew are going to keep me up.”
She opened her eyes and peered at me. “You want to know about Andrew.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. I want to know. I’m not upset—at least, not anymore, but I was for a little bit—about you giving him your power of attorney. But why would you do that? How well do you know him? How did you meet him?”
“Well…let’s see….” Momma slurred; she sounded drugged but not confused, yet not nearly as aware as she had seemed earlier in the evening.
“I’m sorry, am I pushing you? We don’t have to talk about this.”
“No, baby. It’s fine.” Another weak squeeze as we held hands. “Let’s see…did you know Andrew is a poet?”
“Yes.” I’d found that out several days ago, when he told me that fires leave behind Ash.
“I met him about three or four years ago. I’d started a poetry-reading group at the library. I think I told you about that when it started. Mostly it was me and Diane Sylvester and a few ladies from the senior center. Anyway, one day, in walks Andrew.” She paused and I saw her mouth curve into a smile.
“I asked him if I could help him find something, thinking—of course—that he’d wandered into our little group on accident. He asked if we were the poetry group, and when I admitted that we were, he took a seat. Well, you should have seen Diane Sylvester’s face; for that matter, you should have seen my face. I think we were both in a state of shock. Never mind those little old ladies from the senior center, except Mrs. Cooper. She was as pleased as salt on crackers. She’s a cougar, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I think she made Andrew a little uncomfortable when she kept licking her lips at him.”
I grinned at this image. “How old is Mrs. Cooper?”
“Eighty two, but she was seventy eight then, and—I apologize for being impolite—she’s got lots of money.”
In Tennessee, or maybe just in my little corner of it, it’s considered impolite to say the word money. You can talk about gutting a deer and making venison sausages, you can talk about a bar fight, you can talk about your hemorrhoids and all the icky squicky details of childbirth—but if you say the word money, you must apologize for being impolite.
“So, what happened?”
“He didn’t say much during the first meeting, but he was eyeballing me something fierce. I thought I might have offended him. But he came back a second time and read a few of his own works. After that, he asked if I wanted to grab some coffee, so we did.”
“Did you ever think he was…interested in you?”
“Oh, Lord no! He’s younger than Jethro!”
“But….”
“But nothing. I knew it wasn’t like that. Andrew was lost, I could tell from his poetry, and he was looking for a home. He stirred my maternal instincts, not my womanly instincts. Besides, at the time he needed a woman like a cow needs a saddle. What he needed, and what I tried to provide him, was an unconditional ear and support.”
“Why do you trust him so much? I mean, you signed over your medical decisions to him. He’s the executor of your will.”
“Because I know him. I know his history and his heart. He’s….” she sucked in a breath and looked to be searching for the right words to continue. “Ash, he feels like a son to me. And I hope he knows that. I hope he sees me as the mother he never had, at least I hope I’ve filled that role for the years we’ve known each other.”
“He didn’t have a mother?”
She sighed, “Baby, that’s not my story to tell. But I will tell you this: I trust Andrew Runous more th
an I trust you right now.”
I flinched.
She sighed impatiently. “And that’s not because I love you less. I love you to the stars and beyond, just like always. But you’ve got a sensitive heart, and your momma is dying, and your brain is all catawampus. I remember when my mother died. I made terrible decisions in the months that followed. I almost reconciled with your daddy. It was a mess.”
I understood what she meant. Despite my initial reaction to her admission, I realized that I also trusted Drew more at this moment. He’d broken the kiss. He’d left me at the door to the den. I was thankful that he was there to deal with all the logistics and details so that my brothers and I could spend our time and energy on our mother.
“There is something else that’s been nagging at me,” I persisted. I didn’t want to tire her, but she seemed especially lucid right now, so it seemed like a good time to ask. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about how things had improved around here? The boys are doing so much better than I ever would’ve imagined. Why didn’t you keep me up to date on all that? I know I should have asked more, but I thought….” I paused, searching my mind, then added, “I thought things were unchanged because you never told me otherwise. I thought they were still all rascals.”
Momma was very quiet, and I could tell she was thinking; at last she shook her head, her eyes unfocused, and said, “I don’t know. Your time here, growing up, it was hard in this house full of disorderly, unfeeling boys. Maybe I thought I was protecting you…they were so much like your father back then… but that doesn’t make sense. I just don’t know.”
This answer surprised me, especially since she sounded lost. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Before I could form a response, she said, “Maybe I was living through you, maybe just a little bit. Maybe I envied the life you had, the one you made for yourself. Maybe I wanted to keep you all to myself. I don’t know, baby. I didn’t talk to them about you either; and you know, they never asked. Sometimes we behave in ways that make no sense, not even to ourselves. It’s a madness; we all got it. And I’m not perfect. But I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes. Of course, yes.” I wanted to hug her but knew that was impossible, so I settled for caressing her cheek.
“Now, Ash, I got a favor to ask of you.” She shifted in her bed and her face grew sober, her eyes serious.
“Sure, Momma, anything.”
“You’re not going to like it. But I need you to listen to me, and I need you to trust me.”
“You know I trust you.”
“Ash, baby, I need you to call your father. I need to see him, but—more importantly—he needs to see all of you before I go.”
I couldn’t speak because I was certain I’d misheard her. She couldn’t possibly be asking me to invite that man into this home. Not now. Not ever.
“Why, Momma? I just don’t understand how you could….”
“Ash, you need to trust me on this. There are things you don’t know.”
I released a disbelieving snort. “Then tell me.”
“No, baby, because then you’ll go off and call him and tell him yourself. I know your daddy, and I know what I’m doing. I need to tell him face-to-face. He needs to see all of you, all of you together, united. He needs to see it so he knows he doesn’t have any wiggle room—because all he needs is a little wiggle room in your head or Jethro’s or Beau’s. You all need to support each other. That’s what he needs to see.”
“What are you talking about? Wiggle room for what?”
“Ashley, Darrell knows I’m sick. He’s waiting, biding his time, and then he’s going to come after this place and everything with it—that means your trust funds too. He won’t get it, not outright, but he’ll try. And that’ll be a nightmare for your brothers. You don’t live here anymore, but this is their home. This place belongs to you all, but your daddy won’t be happy about that. You think I want you all to deal with him during the funeral? We need to settle this now.”
I stared at her, trying to determine what was at the root of this urgent request. Not everything she said was making sense to me because she was obviously hiding something.
Regardless, a reality that I’d been ignoring began to seep its way into my consciousness.
It hadn’t occurred to me before now, likely because I was tangled and twisted in her terminal diagnosis, and I hadn’t thought about what would come after, but—as far as I knew—my parents were still married. Everything that was in my mother’s name also belonged to my father.
I let that truth sink into my bones.
Only Momma’s name was on the deed to the house and the bank accounts; I knew that for certain. At least, that was the case when I was growing up.
My parents had been separated for two years before my grandmother died, and she’d left everything to my mother. But my father had never given my mother a divorce. She’d tried over the years and he’d resisted, threatened, and made her life hell. Now I understood why. As her husband, he stood to inherit everything.
“Oh, Momma….” I sighed, because I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t want to see my father. I didn’t want to call him. I didn’t want to have the cloud of him hovering over her last days.
“Ash, listen to your momma. You need to call your daddy. I need to talk to him. He needs to see that you all stand united and that he’s not going to be able to manipulate any of you.”
I nodded, closed my eyes, and rubbed my forehead with my free hand. The thought of seeing my father made me sick to my stomach.
“Why now?” I whispered. “Why didn’t you divorce him years ago? Why didn’t you call him before now?”
“When Roscoe turned eighteen, I filed again. I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want you to worry. But we’re two years into it, Ash, and we’re still not close to a divorce. And you know why I waited until Roscoe came of age. You saw how it was; every time I tried to divorce your father it was a nightmare.”
I nodded because I remembered. The last time my mother tried to divorce my father was when I was in high school. He didn’t just harass my mother; he harassed all of us.
He picked up Roscoe from school then abandoned him in a field. Roscoe was ten.
He came to my high school and checked me out of class then took me to The Dragon Biker Bar. I spent the afternoon frightened out of my mind. My father had men pay him for a dance with me, which really just meant I was terrorized and manhandled for an hour before Jackson James and his police officer father showed up and took me home.
He went to the mill where Billy worked, showed up drunk, and nearly got Billy fired.
The list went on and on. I think Momma could have handled the harassment for herself, but she couldn’t stomach watching us go through it.
“But what if he tries to…what if he tries to make medical decisions about your care? He’s still your husband. Why invite him here when he can still hurt you?”
“He can’t, baby. Even though we’re not divorced, we’re legally separated. The only one who can make decisions is Andrew. That was done months ago.”
“Okay.” I said, feeling close to tears again. I sucked it up, though. I didn’t cry. “Okay, Momma. I’ll call him.”
“Thank you, Ash.” My mother exhaled, her eyes closed, and her body seemed to relax as though a giant burden had been lifted.
I stood from her bedside and was just about to cross to my cot when she said, “I have something to tell you, Ash. It’s really important.”
I held her hand in both of mine and squeezed. “What is it, Momma?”
“I know you don’t like needing people, but maybe—just this once—let yourself need someone. Maybe let yourself need Andrew. It would help him too, I think. He deserves to be needed by someone like you. Even if it’s just for a short time….”
I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Her hand had grown limp in mine, and I knew she was asleep.
I watched her sleep for a bit then
went to my cot and laid on it. I didn’t sleep much that night, for—again—obvious reasons. I tossed and turned and finally fell asleep some hours later.
When I woke up, Drew was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
“There is practically no activity that cannot be enhanced or replaced by knitting, if you really want to get obsessive about it.”
― Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, At Knit’s End: Meditations for Women Who Knit Too Much
If anyone had told me five weeks ago that I would be quoting Emily Dickenson in the woods with Drew, I would have told that person to invest in a good psychotherapist.
If anyone had told me just a week ago that I would be kissing Drew on the back porch of my momma’s house as though his lips and body were my only source of nourishment, and I would be left with a lingering craving that could not be satiated, I would have told that person about the alien invasion happening in Poughkeepsie. I also would’ve mentioned that I was loyal to the kumquat trees. Because what else do you say to the severely insane?
Yet, there I was—consumed.
I love the fire most because of what it leaves behind….
Ash. It leaves behind ash.
I pressed the base of my palms against my eyes and gathered a deep breath. At present, I was upstairs in my room, trying to take a nap before my Tuesday night knitting group Skype call, and failing miserably. This would be the second time I’d been able to Skype in and attend my knitting group, and I’d been anxious all week about it, looking forward to it.
I was tired. I had the place, motive, and opportunity for a nap. But I couldn’t sleep.
Earlier in the day, I’d called my father and left a message on his cell phone. I told him that Momma wanted to talk to him, and I hung up. Then I’d started spreading the word to my brothers that we were going to have a family meeting after my knitting group Skype call.
I could have been worrying about any number of things: my father’s impending visit, breaking the news to my brothers, my mother’s impending departure, how I was going to butcher all those roosters. But I wasn’t.
