by Meany, John
Of late she had also started to write equally menacing poetry. Ashley kept these personal thoughts recorded in a journal beside her bed. In that same nightstand drawer, that’s where she also stored her .22 Caliber revolver. Ashley had purchased the firearm to help her feel safe, particularly when she planned to be out at night.
Her mother had not wanted her to buy it. Claire felt uncomfortable having a loaded gun in the house. She had heard too many horror stories about how they can accidentally discharge.
Now, after putting on her favorite Shania Twain CD, Come on Over, and locating her pallet and a clean brush, Ashley stepped in front of her easel.
Onto a new canvas, she let her imagination run wild. Soon mesmerizing images materialized.
On a nearby table, next to her pint of Smirnoff vodka, Ashley’s two bottles of prescription medication seemed to be beckoning her name.
There would be no nightmares tonight. Ashley was sure of that. The sleeping pills would see to that.
CHAPTER 15
The following morning, Ashley’s mother woke her up at eleven o‘clock. Claire stood beside the queen-size bed, with the baby cradled in her arms.
Groggily, Ashley pushed her floral quilt, blanket, and sheet away from her face. Then, with her eyes still shut, she yawned.
“We were wondering if you were going to sleep all day,” her mother announced teasingly, putting the fidgety child down on the mattress. “Kimberly, my daughter is becoming lazy. Tell her to get up?” Claire wore an aquamarine V-neck top, a skirt, and she had her platinum hair pulled neatly into a secure bun. Kimberly only had a diaper on. The baby’s clothes were still in the dryer.
“Okay,” Ashley whispered unfocusedly. “I’ll be up in a minute. Is that coffee or tea I smell?”
“Coffee. I already made you a cup. It’s on the kitchen counter.”
“Oh. Awesome. Thanks. Did you put sugar in it?”
“Yes. And milk.”
“Great.” Sitting up, Ashley massaged her temples. It took a moment before she realized it was Saturday. Judging by the sunshine streaming in the window, (her mother had yanked the drapes open) Ashley could see that it was a gorgeous day. The authoritative light forced her to look sideways.
Jeez! How many sleeping pills had Ashley taken? They were powerful, especially mixing them with vodka. For the first time in a long time, as she had hoped, Ashley did not have any bad dreams.
After slipping into her pink Terrycloth robe, she carried her big mug of Maxwell House out to the deck in the backyard, where her mother sat cozily at the patio table underneath the umbrella.
The fragrant lawn, which was enclosed by a wooden fence, was superbly green, recently mowed and weed whacked. On the other side of the six-foot high fence, they could hear their neighbor the Murray’s sprinkler.
“I still can’t get over how you converted the basement into an art studio,” Claire commented, as Ashley casually pulled up a chair.
Beside them, Kimberly rolled around in her crib, where she spent most of her time. Claire had an electric fan on, which kept the baby cool.
“Yeah. I suppose I gave it quite a make-over.” Again, Ashley yawned.
“That’s an understatement. It looks like a completely different room.”
“That it does. Sorry about the clutter.”
“Ahh. I don’t mind,” her mother said, nonchalantly flipping through the pages of that month’s People magazine. “The way you have the cellar looking now, reminds me of a movie I saw back in the eighties about this eccentric painter who had a studio in Paris . . . His was way messier than yours. Paintings, canvases, frames, drop cloths, and brushes strewn everywhere.”
“I’ll straighten it up this week.”
“No hurry. By the way, Ashley, when are you going to start trying to sell some of your artwork? Your paintings are spectacular. You’re more talented now than ever. You should take your art up to New York. If you did, I don‘t think it would take that long for you to be discovered.”
Ashley‘s sipped her hot beverage. “I’ve been thinking about doing that. Might have to drive up there one of these days and start visiting different galleries, see if they’ll include something I‘ve done in one of their exhibitions. I guess you’ve noticed my artwork lately is extremely personal.”
“Yes. I have noticed that.” As Claire spoke, she kept her attention focused on her magazine. A cold can of Diet Coke was perched on a coaster near her hand. “You’re reliving what happened to you. That last piece you did of the dead baby lying near the woods made that obvious.”
“Do you like that painting?” Ashley asked, not pleased to hear that one of their other neighbor’s the Abrams, had started their lawn mower. “That particular piece only took me about a week to complete.”
“Yes. The painting is wonderful. It’s so reminiscent of Picasso. I love the cubist approach. However, my only criticism would be that a depiction of a dead baby is a bit disturbing. Though I‘m sure there’s a market for a piece like that. I‘ll tell you what, I‘ll post the painting on the internet. See what kind of feedback I get.”
“All right. By painting what happened to me,” Ashley explained. “I think I’m subconsciously trying to rid myself of the memories. I know the baby didn‘t die, but at the time, when I was being held hostage, that‘s what scared me the most.”
Her mother’s voice took on an analytical pitch. “That‘s all well and good, Ash. But I wish you would have stayed in therapy. In this psychology book I’m reading, the author said some rape victims never learn how to be intimate again . . . And you’re so young. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Mother, we’ve discussed this before. And I’m going to tell you again, if I ever feel the need to go back into therapy, I’ll go. It’ll be my decision. Not yours.” Ashley stood up.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Inside. I need to freshen up.”
***
Like mysterious shadows, the ghosts followed Ashley into the bathroom.
After ten minutes, when she had stepped out of the hot shower, smelling of Dove soap, Ashley saw the bearded man Craig Elliot lock the door. KA KLICK! His powerfully built accomplice, Buck Kennedy stood near the porcelain sink, his back facing the steamed-covered mirror.
Self-conscious because she was nude, Ashley froze for a moment, unsure what to do. Her attackers stared at her with eerie eyes. The ghosts wore the same long-sleeved flannel shirts that they had on the night of the rape. The same blue jeans and muddy boots as well. Yet, to Ashley’s surprise, there were no dirty footprints on the floor. The peach-colored tile was still well scrubbed, and smelled of lemon disinfectant.
Our girl here, Craig said to Buck, doesn’t realize she’s walking among the dead. She’s dying and doesn’t even realize it.
She deserves to die, Buck replied, as Ashley nervously wrapped a bath towel around her wet body. We died that night. Why shouldn’t she?
Living among the dead, Craig again uttered spookily before, into the fog-like steam, he and his evil companion disappeared.
Petrified and looking to escape whatever the hell was happening, Ashley quickly located her stash of pain pills. With twitchy hands, she swallowed two of the small white tablets.
Then, when she was dressed, she hurried into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Carlo Rossi red wine. Although Kitty had warned her not to mix the pills with alcohol, Ashley did not care. In fact, she was purposely drinking the wine to strengthen the affect of the medication.
Up until recently, Craig Elliot and Buck Kennedy had only haunted Ashley in her sleep. Now they were coming to life. Or seemed to be. It was more than Ashley could handle.
She wondered if perhaps these hallucinations had been brought on because of something she had seen, this week, on CNN, a chilling account of a girl, from West Virginia, who had also been raped.
This victim, however, had not been as fortunate as Ashley. Discovered naked behind an aband
oned farmhouse, only one mile from her home, the twenty-five year old girl’s throat had been viciously slashed from ear to ear.
Of course, if not for Troy Young, Ashley would have suffered a similar outcome. Except her headline would have read ‘Died of Strangulation.’
CHAPTER 16
At noon, Claire Whittaker still sat in the sunny backyard, lounging underneath the big green umbrella. When she looked up and watched her daughter reemerge from the sliding glass door, she was somewhat taken aback to see that Ashley had a goblet of red wine in her hand. Claire herself didn’t normally indulge in alcohol before nightfall. Naturally, Ashley wore her dark shades.
“Wine?” Claire said, still reading. The People magazine in front of her was now open to an article about Matt Damon. The pages fluttered slightly in the featherlike breeze. “How do you go from coffee forty-five minutes ago to wine?”
Ashley reclaimed her seat. She wore strawberry lipstick, a sundress, and a pair of flip-flops. A delightful soapy scent emanated from her freshly showered skin. Her hair, combed straight down, was still damp. “I thought I could use something to help me relax.”
“Why? Are you feeling anxious?”
“Somewhat.”
“How anxious?”
“Just a little. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“Ash, we could still get you on antidepressants. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Nowadays everyone’s taking them.”
“No! I don’t need antidepressants. So please, just drop it.”
“Sorry.” Watching her daughter gulp a huge mouthful from her glass, prompted Claire to shake her head. “Hey, I was thinking, after lunch, I might take the baby for a walk. Do you want to come with me?”
On the table, aside from magazines, there was also a copy of the New York Times. Ashley reached for it. “Yeah. I’ll tag along,” she said, opening the paper to the fashion section. “Except I hope for lunch you’re not planning to cook the left-over roast beef and vegetables.”
“I was. Why? You‘d rather eat something else?”
“Yes. If anything, being that I just woke up, I’d rather have brunch. Something simple. Like an egg and cheese sandwich. I‘ll make it myself.”
“Sure. Whatever. We’ll save the leftovers for tonight . . . Oh. I almost forgot, Ash, Brad Ferguson called.”
“When, today?”
“Uh huh.”
“What time?”
“About nine-thirty. Ten. He said he would have dialed your cell phone, but couldn’t, because you haven’t given him the number.”
“I know. Well, what does he expect? I‘ve only had the phone for a month.” Ashley adjusted her sunglasses. “Hmn. I wonder what he wants. Was he phoning from the country club?”
“No. It wasn’t Peter’s father. It was his brother, Brad Jr.”
“Whoa! That‘s odd. I haven‘t heard from Peter‘s brother in a while. Did he mention why he wanted to talk to me?”
“He did. It seems the orthopedic surgeon is throwing a pool party tomorrow.”
“And?”
“He wanted to know if you‘d like to attend. That is, if you don’t have any prior engagements.”
***
A pool party at Peter‘s brother‘s house. Ashley could already picture the setting.
Handsome and charming, Brad would be socializing with affluent physicians, while her sister-in-law Eve, likely clad in a provocative string bikini, would be gossiping with the doctor’s wives. It would be a celebration with champagne and fancy hors d’ oeuvres, as the wealthy partygoers either swam, laid in the sun, or played horseshoes and shuffleboard.
Without Peter, Ashley realized this would be a social function that she’d likely feel uncomfortable attending. Also, she suspected, if she were to go, people, behind her back, would probably talk about how she’d been raped, looking to see how she was holding up.
The last time Ashley had seen her brother-in-law, Brad and his wife had come to Wichita. That had been a few months ago. They had dined at the Red Lobster. For Ashley, it had been a pleasurable outing, and would have been more fun if her six-year-old nephew hadn’t been complaining the whole time. Jeffery was supposed to leave his Gameboy in the car, and instead of obeying, Ashley’s spoiled nephew had snuck it into the restaurant underneath his sweater. When his father had taken the video game away, Jeffery had become resentful and cranky.
“Did Brad invite just me?”
“No,” Claire answered. “The baby too?”
“What about you?”
“I don’t want to go. Tomorrow Rachel and I are heading to a yard sale in Morrisville. Supposedly, according to their ad, they’ll be selling a lot of Star Wars memorabilia.”
Ashley giggled. She could already feel the loopy affect from the pills and alcohol. “Star Wars memorabilia.”
“Hey, don’t laugh,” her mother, uttered defensively. “Next year there’s a new movie coming out. Do you realize how much money on EBay you can get for Star Wars memorabilia? A lot. Believe me.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right. I don‘t doubt that.”
“So are you going?”
“I might. Did Brad tell you what time I‘m supposed to be there?”
“He said to show up at around eleven.”
“All right. I guess I’ll go. But if one person comes up to me and starts talking about either Peter‘s death, or even worse, what happened to me, offering sympathy, I’m leaving. I won‘t stay there and put up with that.”
“Ashley, will you calm down? You’re being paranoid again. Most of the people who’ll be at this party will be other doctors and nurses. They’ll be preoccupied discussing medical mumbo jumbo.”
CHAPTER 17
By the time lunch was over, or in Ashley’s case, brunch, she was already visibly intoxicated. She had just finished her third glass of wine, when her mother, eager to take the baby for a walk, put Kimberly in her stroller.
They were in the front yard.
“How far are we walking?” Ashley asked. She had started to slur her words. Not in a hurry, she sat on the creaky porch-swing, with her goblet perched crookedly on her lap. Her hair looked frizzy and tangled.
“Just up the street,” her mother responded. “I want to stop at Pet City.” It was only ten minutes away.
“The pet store, what do you want to go there for?”
“Believe it or not, I was considering buying a puppy. Wouldn’t that be nice, to have a little dog running around out back? I bet Kimberly would like that. It would give her someone to play with.” Claire pushed the stroller down the cobblestone pathway.
As Ashley lethargically dragged herself off the porch, she was so numb and sedated, she felt as if she were stepping on marshmallows.
“Didn’t you forget something?” Claire asked. She had stopped, with her hands on her hips, near the bottom of the driveway.
“Huh?”
“Your shoes. You forgot your shoes.”
“Oh.” Ashley glanced down at her small bare feet. She had polished pink toenails. “Okay. Hold on. Do you know where my flip-flops are?”
“No. Maybe they’re in the backyard underneath the table.”
“Forget it. I’ll just wear my sneakers.”
***
Pet City was located on the main highway, near a Barnes and Nobles and a Gulf gas station. The tiny building had an elaborate window exhibit. Behind the glass, there were a few puppies in cages. One looked to be a collie; the other three were a mixed breed. The puppies were all standing up, wagging their tails.
“Awe. Look at the whittle doggies,” Claire said, lifting the baby out of her stroller to have a look. “They’re so adorable, Kimberly. Just like you.”
“Do you want me to wait out here?” Ashley asked, taking another drag of her cigarette. It was the second one she had had since they had left the house.
The expression on her mother’s face was stern. “No. I suppose since you came all this way, you
might as well come in. Before you do though, please put that thing out.”
“Oh. You’re not allowed to smoke in here?”
“Of course you’re not allowed to smoke in here. Jesus Ashley, if you took those ridiculous sunglasses off, you might be able to read the ’No Smoking’ sign on the door.’” Not only did this outrageous behavior incense Claire, she was appalled at how unsteadily her daughter had walked down the street. It was hard for her to believe that Ashley could get so inebriated from just a couple of glasses of wine. It seemed more as if she’d downed a half of gallon of the damned stuff.
***
Inside the pet store, Ashley spotted a black Doberman. This had been the first puppy that had baited her curiosity.
When the owner asked if she needed help, she did not answer. On her pretty face, with her lipstick slightly smeared, Ashley had the look of a woman daydreaming.
“Hello,” the owner spoke again. “Are you interested in adopting one of our animals?”
***
“Yes. We’re looking for a dog,” Claire interrupted, afraid that if her daughter engaged in conversation with the pet shop owner, she would embarrass them. “Actually a puppy.”
The owner smiled. The place smelled heavily of urine. The owner was middle-aged, sported a white lab coat, and had a clipboard in his hand. “A puppy. Well ladies, if you’re looking for a puppy, you’ve come to the right place. We have plenty of them. All fine dogs too.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Claire said, “we’re going to take a peek at what you have. And if we find a puppy we like, we’ll return in an hour.”
“An hour?”
“Yes. I don’t have my car with me. We walked here. So we’d have to come back.”
“Whereabouts do you live?” the man asked.
“Not far. Just up the street.”
