by Meany, John
Now while the grave digger used his shovel to finish excavating what would soon be someone‘s final resting ground, he glanced at Ashley.
She did not know why, but this guy scared her. In all of the times Ashley had come to the cemetery, she had never seen this person before. Or for that matter, any grave digger.
Ignoring him, she went back to conversing with Peter‘s tombstone: “I think your parents are finally coming around. I know I already told you that, Peter, the last time I was here, yet I really think it’s true. I feel one day soon your folks and I will become genuine friends . . . I truly believe they want to become apart of Kimberly’s life. The last time I talked to them, you would have been surprised. They made me put the baby on the phone, and there was your father saying ‘Goo goo gaa ga. Is that my granddaughter?’ I couldn‘t believe it.”
Why did it often take misfortune to make people realize what was truly important in life? If Ashley hadn’t been raped, Brad and Teri Ferguson would have still been treating her like garbage.
Before she had a chance to finish her thought, something behind Ashley distracted her: the sound of someone coughing. Once more, it was the grave digger. He had stopped what he was doing. Now he stood in the shade of sycamore tree. His eyes were glued to Ashley. As mucky sweat dripped from the old-timer’s forehead, he extracted, from his breast pocket, a match. He then produced a flame and rekindled his cigar.
What happened after that almost compelled Ashley to scream.
The gravedigger, as if by supernatural influence, began to physically transform into the evil rapist Craig Elliot. The white stubble on his chin magically darkened, became a full-grown black beard. The wrinkles near his eyes and mouth vanished, his chubby body thinned. Now the gravedigger looked exactly the way Ashley had remembered Craig Elliot from field when the flashlight had momentarily lit up his face, and also from the police photographs. Like Charles Mansion.
Still staring in her direction, the bearded man picked up the shovel and then started to walk toward Peter‘s plot. A noisy swarm of flies buzzed near his head. Hello Christina, he spoke, while exhaling cigar smoke. Nice to see you again. We don’t get too many visitors here in the land of the dead. Are you coming to join us?
“What do you want from me?” Ashley demanded, feeling her knees sink. “Just go away! You can’t be real? You just can’t be real. It’s impossible!”
With the shovel, Craig pointed to the ditch he had dug. Do you like that spot? I know it’s not right next to your hubby’s grave. But at least it’s in the same bone yard. Ha! Ha! Ha! He looked around, admiring the many stones and crosses. And what a peaceful bone yard it is. You’d do yourself proud to be buried here.
Paranoid, Ashley suddenly lunged toward this, ghost, apparition, whatever it was, and then yanked the rusty shovel from its hand. “I won’t let you hurt me again!” she hollered, swinging the shovel at Craig Elliot’s head. She missed by about five of six inches.
“Young lady! Get a hold of yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to know if you knew the time.”
Now what Ashley observed standing in front of her was no longer her attacker. Rather, it was merely a meek old man who appeared to be petrified by what she had just done. The grave digger, who at this point had white hair again as well as a white beard, had his hands held up near his startled eyes, in case he had to shield his face from another chopping swipe.
Ashamed, Ashley quickly shook the man’s hand and then apologized.
How could her mind have played such a despicable trick on her like that? Sometimes, because of how depressed she’d been, she couldn’t distinguish the difference between reality and fantasy? A few more inches with the shovel to the right, and Ashley might have killed this fellow!
“Again, please except my sincere apology sir,” she added. “I don’t know what made me do that. I guess I thought you were . . . someone else.”
Mystified, the gravedigger regarded her cautiously. “Who’d you think I was?”
“Just someone- who had once caused me a lot of pain.”
CHAPTER 13
At age sixty-four Claire Whittaker looked more like a woman in her late forties, as opposed to someone who would soon be eligible to collect social security.
She had platinum hair that dropped just beyond her shoulders, a fresh face, and a curvy figure that many men still found appealing. When she and Ashley were in public together they communicated the image of a youthful and older version of Barbie.
After lovingly rocking her granddaughter Kimberly to sleep, Claire stopped in the upstairs hallway for a moment to stare at one of Ashley’s paintings.
The abstract representation of a flower vase, reminded Claire how good of an artist her daughter was. The painting, completed when Ashley had been a teenager, also made Claire think of happier times.
These days she was worried about Ashley and strongly believed that she should have remained in group therapy, which she had only attended for about a month.
Losing Peter had been difficult enough. Then Ashley was raped. How could anyone, especially someone so young, deal with those set of circumstances? Ashley had been through more pain and heartbreak than most people will in a lifetime.
Even so, she needed to get it together. Claire had been growing tired of watching her daughter sulk.
How long did Ashley intend to feel sorry for herself? Another year? Another ten years? Claire believed a doting boyfriend was what her daughter needed to help hoist her out of her funk.
Sometimes Ashley would become so withdrawn; she would stare out the living room window for hours, looking like a zombie, particularly when it rained. Or she would hang out on the front porch, with her easel set up painting, and two or three hours later there would be barely anything on the canvas.
One day Claire had asked her daughter what she was working on and Ashley, with her pallet and brush in her hand, had looked at her mother as if she were in a trance and had stated that until something formed on her canvas she wouldn’t know what the painting was supposed to be. She had said this in a snotty way, followed by a loud irritated sigh that needed no translation, the gesture meant bug off!
The one thing, however, that displeased Claire more than anything; she disliked the fact that her daughter had recently taken up smoking.
Claire viewed cigarettes as vile.
Throughout her life, she had known many people who had indulged in nicotine, which had included Ashley’s father.
At one point during their marriage, Claire’s husband Walter had been up to two packs daily. Back in those days it had seemed to her that her coughing spouse, whether it was down at the diner they owned or at home, either had a cigarette in his mouth, or had been preparing to light one.
Claire not only loathed the way tobacco made one’s breath and clothing smell, she also feared its toxic nature. What’s more, cigarettes were dangerous to innocent persons nearby, like babies.
Yes! That was at the hub of the issue. Claire was upset that Ashley smoked in front of the baby. There she‘d be, on the front porch, feeding, with one hand, Kimberly a bottle, while with her other hand she would be puffing her cancer stick.
Naturally Claire assumed her daughter, as intelligent as she was, should have known how detrimental, for the child, secondhand smoke could be.
Though perhaps Ashley’s logic suggested, because she puffed outdoors, that this threat didn’t apply. Then again, it seemed rather strange how Ashley would always remember to keep Kimberly away when she was using turpentine to clean her paint brushes.
Lately, it had also come to Claire’s attention that her daughter had developed a taste for alcohol.
Ashley had a preference for red Californian wine, the kind that came in the gallon-sized jugs. She usually bought a few of these bottles at a time. One would go straight into the refrigerator, while the others would be stored in the kitchen cabinet.
Another criticism Claire had regarding Ashley had to do wi
th coffee. In the morning if she didn’t have it, she’d become grouchy, and would start slamming the cupboard doors and tossing silverware around, grumbling:
We can’t be out of coffee already, are we? Because if we are, we’re going to have to start buying bigger cans. I can’t function when I don’t have coffee! I could have sworn we had another can of Maxwell House.
Her tantrum would continue until she settled on a backup plan, hot chocolate or tea.
Still, with that said, Ashley did have admirable qualities. Therefore living with her wasn’t all bad.
Claire liked how her daughter helped out in the kitchen. She scrubbed greasy pots and pans, loaded the dishwasher, sponged the counters, and took the garbage out. Ashley also took it upon herself to vacuum the floors in all of the rooms and to dust the furniture, which Claire viewed as a considerate gesture.
She could cook too. Ashley could cook almost anything. Different styles too, Italian, Mexican, and Chinese. In addition, she made fabulous desserts. In fact, Ashley was the only person Claire had ever known who could make homemade ice cream taste the way it did when you bought it at the local parlor. Hers may have even been better.
Two and a half years before, when Ashley had packed her bags to go live with Peter, Claire, even though her daughter had only moved a few blocks away, had felt abandoned.
The prevailing emptiness she had undergone, especially when she would look at Ashley’s unoccupied room, had been a strict reminder to her as to how life, if you’re not emotionally prepared, can really hurt.
Therefore, whether the bad presently outweighed the good, or vice versa, Claire was content on dealing with the situation. After all, she had been the one who had asked her daughter to come and live back home. Claire saw it as normal. This was the new millennium. Young adults today sometimes lived at home until they were in their thirties.
CHAPTER 14
On the drive home from the cemetery, Ashley was so distracted; she could barely concentrate on the highway, and felt compelled to start sipping from the pint of Smirnoff vodka that she had in the glove compartment.
What’s more, at one point, she had sworn she had seen Craig Elliot’s face in the rearview, as if he were in the backseat. This time his partner Buck Kennedy was with him.
At that instant, spooked out of her mind, Ashley almost drove her black Toyota off of the road. In the process, she had inadvertently run a guy on a ten-speed off of the shoulder.
The perturbed cyclist flipped her the bird. “You brainless bitch!” the man on the bike yelled, shaking his fist. “Since when do they allow blind people to have driver’s licenses?” He stood brushing dirt and gravel from his scraped knees.
Ashley did not notice the biker, and because she had her car stereo turned up to a near deafening volume, she did not hear the person in the Jeep behind her honking their horn at her either.
***
While Claire Whittaker busied herself sweeping the front porch, she suddenly saw her daughter’s Toyota drive up. From Ashley’s car stereo the booming echo of drums, bass guitar, and Mariah Carey’s high-octave voice rattled the previously quiet neighborhood. Shockingly, Ashley practically swerved into the garbage cans that were near the mailbox.
What’s her problem? Claire thought, leaning the broom against the door. She hurried down the cobblestone walkway to the concrete driveway. When she peeked through the Toyota’s windshield, Claire became irritated that her daughter had a cigarette in her mouth. Did you expect otherwise? That’s all she seems to do lately. Is smoke! Smoke! Smoke!
After exiting the vehicle, Ashley removed her Diva shades.
To Claire, her daughter’s eyes looked spacey and bloodshot. Upon further investigation, she concluded that Ashley must have been suffering from allergies. “Honey, you just bought that car. What are you trying to do, wreck it already?”
Ashley frowned. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Well, you did almost crash into the garbage cans.”
“C’mon mom. Give me a break. I made a sharp turn. That’s all.” From the trunk Ashley retrieved a plastic bag from Kohl’s. From it she withdrew a floppy hat. “What do you think of this?”
“Looks a bit small.”
“It’s not for me. This is a sunhat for the baby. For when I take Kimberly to the beach. I’ve had it in the trunk since yesterday. Almost forgot about it.” Ashley took a long pull from her Marlboro Light.
Scowling, Claire turned her head to avoid getting smoke in her face. “For heaven’s sake, Ashley, can’t you put that thing out? Why’d you even have to start smoking? You lived your entire life avoiding cigarettes. Now all of a sudden this year you smoke like a chimney. It’s disgusting. I don’t get it.”
Disregarding the criticism, Ashley shook her head and then slammed the trunk shut.
***
In the house, her mother asked, “So where’ve you been?”
“Out.”
“I know you were out. I was curious as to where you were.”
Ashley did not feel like answering. Why couldn’t she come and go without being interrogated? She wasn’t a kid anymore. She was an adult.
“I gather you’re not going to tell me?”
“If you must know, I was at the cemetery.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. An hour.”
“What’d you do?”
“What do you think I did? I put more flowers on Peter’s grave.” In the oven-heated kitchen, Ashley observed that the juicy roast was already on a cutting board. It smelled yummy. The meal also included steamed string beans, carrots, and a tin of rolls.
“You know, it isn’t healthy, Ashley. I understand how much you still miss Peter. I was like that after your father passed away. But sooner or later you’re going to have to let go.”
Ashley walked over to the sink to sanitize her hands.
“I will eventually,” she insisted, reaching for the Jergens hand soap. “Except I don’t know why you say it’s unhealthy for me to still visit his grave. Peter hasn’t even been gone for a year. If anything, I think it’s beneficial. It keeps me from being lonely.”
“Maybe so.” With a long serrated knife, Claire started to slice the meat. “Don’t you agree though, it’s a little bizarre to be talking to a gravestone, half-expecting that gravestone to speak back to you?”
“I don’t believe you!” Ashley accused, suddenly swinging herself around. “You’ve been spying on me.” With a dishtowel, she dried her hands. “There’s no way you could know I do that unless you were spying on me.”
“I wasn’t spying. One day last month I was looking for you, so I drove over there . . . Ash honey, if you want to talk to his grave, go ahead. I’m just saying it’s not going to bring Peter back. The way I see it, you should focus on what you do have. You have Kimberly. You have me. And now you have a new job. Life is looking up.”
Ashley sighed. “Whatever,” she muttered, now sitting down. “Let’s just eat dinner. I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. But I’m not in the mood for a pep talk.”
“Okay. Guess what?”
“What?”
“I found Kimberly a high-chair. Throw some stain and varnish on it and it’ll look as good as new.”
“Oh, that’s sweet. Thank you, mom. You didn’t have to do that.”
What Claire Whittaker enjoyed doing, since retiring two years ago, was buy and then resell things on EBay. She’d pawn anything from old books, records, sewing machines, dolls, to any kind of trinket she could find either in her attic, or at the various flea markets, garage or yard sales, which she attended on a weekly basis. “I know. I wanted to. The next thing I’m going to do is look for a stroller.”
“All right,” Ashley told her. “You can do that. Then that’s it! You hear me? I don’t want you going overboard buying things for Kimberly. We don’t need to spoil her.”
“I’m not going to spoil her.”
“I hope not.”
“Although look who just purchased her a new hat.”
“I bought her the hat for the beach. She can’t be sitting in the hot sun with a bald head.”
Claire carried a serving dish with the steaming roast beef on it to the table. “And I bought her the high-chair because the one we have is cracked from when you accidentally knocked it over on Monday. Remember?”
Ashley filled her plate with both the meat and the veggies. “Okay. And I said thank you. I just don’t want her to grow up expecting things.”
“I understand,” Claire said, handing Ashley the tub of butter and a roll. “From now on anytime I decide to get Kimberly something, I’ll clear it with you first. Deal?”
“Okay. Deal.”
“Pass me the salt. I’m starved.”
“Me too. Wow! This roast beef is excellent. I hardly need a knife to cut it, it’s cooked perfectly.”
“It is delicious. This time, Ash, I almost cooked the roast beef as great as you do. Which, as you know is pretty sad when you consider that your father and I owned a diner. I should be able to cook the meat better than you.”
“I think your specialty is meatloaf,” Ashley noted. “I remember when I briefly worked there again during college, that’s what the customers used to like. The meatloaf and those big bacon double cheeseburgers.”
***
After supper, Ashley escaped to the basement, which she had recently turned into an art studio.
When she was younger, Ashley used to paint portraits, still life, and landscapes with peaceful themes. Since the rape, however, that had changed dramatically. Now she was doing frightening surreal art, alternating from daring cubist style to emotional impressionism.
