Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  "I don’t know. It’s awful small, Paz," Jas said, mirroring my own thoughts.

  "Mamash is awful small, girl. You saw her when she got out of the shower. All tendons and bones under that white and purple skin a hers. She so skinny, only thing she got going for her is her legs. You got great lookin’ legs, Mamash."

  "I have fat thighs," I contradicted before I could stop myself.

  "Men like fat thighs, Mamash."

  "Daddy always loved her legs. Called her Thunder Thighs when he was horny."

  "Jasmine!" Both girls laughed while I turned rosy beneath the pale makeup. Thunder Thighs was a private name. A name I had both loathed and loved. Loathed because I hated my big thighs, and loved because Jack always said it with such tenderness and seduction. I had forgotten that. Forgotten all about it. "Your father tolerated my legs, Jasmine."

  "My daddy loved your legs, Mama. He told me so."

  "He did?" There was a short silence in the room as I absorbed this tidbit of honesty. The girls exchanged a look I couldn’t interpret.

  "Yes, ma’am, he did," Jas said, turning her back to me and poking around in my jewelry case. Metal and gems rattled, trinkets from Jack, not the valuables which were kept in the safe.

  "When . . . when did he tell you that," I asked, sounding far more casual than I felt.

  Jas’s shoulders moved up and down, a pearl ring on her finger, held up to the light. I don’t know what she thought she might see. Pearls didn’t sparkle.

  There were so many things I wanted that I could never have, now. Little memories that were dimming. Memories of Jack and how much he loved me. Jack had claimed he loved my legs, but I’d never really believed him. Not when I longed for slim legs with svelte muscles and inches more of height. Memories of Robyn’s beautiful legs in the hated photographs intruded. I blinked the thought away, wanting to remember only the good right now, for just this moment. Jack had told Jasmine he loved my legs . . . All these years he liked my legs. I slid a hand along the curved length, what there was of it. The motion hurt my shoulder. He liked my legs.

  Through the medicated haze, I remembered the plastic garbage bag of pictures on the closet floor, hidden beneath winter boots. A thrill of fear shot through me and I sat up. But Jas hadn’t burrowed there in her search for warm weather finery.

  I lay back, fighting tears. All the years of loving had waited till now to become real to me. Now, when it was too late. Now, when he was gone and I couldn’t ruffle his dark hair, shot through with silver, and see that wonderful erotic glint in his dark eyes each time he touched me. Now, when I knew about Robyn.

  I closed my eyes, blocking out a world that was too big and dark and empty without him. A world where the Jack I thought I had known had never really existed. When I opened them again, the girls were arguing over underwear.

  Jas had three bras over one arm, panties in the other hand; Topaz was trying to eliminate the white set. "Ugly. Just too ugly. And so . . . so plebeian. Now, the taupe set, that’s classy. And new too. I think Mamash should take off the tags and slip into these, and that gold necklace with the yellow stones and she would be downright sexy."

  I had to put an end to this now, before the girls had me in bed with some romantic stranger. This cooperation in decorating me was obviously a part of their mutual penance for arguing, but I was not their dress up Barbie doll. And I was not going to the symphony.

  "Girls." They turned to me. Jas set her lips the instant she saw my face, and Topaz put her fists on her hips, dual belligerent poses. I wondered if Topaz would grab my ear and shake me before I finished what I had to say. At least they were friends again. "Girls, I’m not going to the symphony. I don’t want to go. I hurt. It even hurts to breathe. And I can’t drive with the pain medication. Understand?"

  "We’re driving you," Jas said stubbornly.

  "Yeah. In the Volvo. We took it to the Majic Hands car wash. Got it washed, waxed, and vacuumed. Even got it deodorized so it smells like a Christmas tree."

  "Topaz and I are going to drive you up, drop you off and go to a movie. Then pick you up at Monica’s after the party. And if you get too tired, I’ll have my cell and can pick you up early. But you have to go, Mama. You have to."

  "No. I don’t." And certainly to Monica’s, who was a domineering, bossy, she-cat, chasing after anything in pants and catching most of them. She had even made a play for Jack years ago, when he was courting her husband Emory Beck and his investment group. And Monica had legs that would make Robin green with envy. Monica and Emory had invested at Davenport Hills, a small voice murmured at the back of my mind. I might learn something if I went. . . . Fat chance, I answered back. Monica had never told me anything I wanted to know; even as a teenager she had withheld information just for spite. "I’m not going."

  The girls exchanged another glance. Something about that look finally penetrated. Something was up. My mind veered back to a romantic liaison with a sexy stranger. My stomach twisted in distress. Surely their new teamwork hadn’t led them to do something horribly wrong. "What," I said, my voice severe. "What was that look about? You girls have something up your sleeves, and I want to know what it is. Now." An uncomfortable silence stretched as they looked from me to one another and to the phone beside the bed. "What!" And this time there was that "I’m-in-charge, don’t-mess-with-me tone," in my voice. The one I always hated to hear Nana use. The one that always worked so well on me. It worked now.

  Jas sighed. "It’s supposed to be a surprise, Mama. About Daddy."

  My apprehension faded, to be replaced by a different sort of worry. Jas climbed up on the mattress beside me. Topaz sat on the edge, her face solemn. "Monica and the patrons are giving Daddy a plaque at the Patrons’ Party after the concert. For all his contributions over the years."

  "Oh. Oh my." I was glad I was lying down, the pillows around me an urgent support as the room twirled once before growing still again. I felt limp and threadbare suddenly, like an old, linen throw in need of starch, a plain, faded thing surrounded by all this luxury.

  "That’s why Monica’s been calling all week. She was almost frantic by the time I called her back this morning. Monica said you have to accept it posthumously."

  "And Mamash, that woman could talk the ears off a mule on a good day," Topaz added, using one of Aunt Mosetta’s favorite sayings. Jas agreed with a saucy grin, but there was an undertone of concern beneath it. She checked my brow again as she had done last night and half a dozen times since. It was the touch of the distressed, the frightened, and I understood it well. Perhaps better than she did herself, after reading and rereading the little booklet on grief given to me by my pastor, the newly Reverend Winslow, the day of Jack’s funeral.

  Most children, once they reach adulthood, begin to think of their parents as weak, helpless, and feeble. Jas had come to that point in life suddenly, brutally, and she wasn’t certain I would stand up under the pressure. She was afraid I would die and leave her alone.

  "It’s supposed to be a secret," she repeated, whispering. She gathered up my hands in her own, her gaze on my fingers; her eyes rested on my left ring finger, naked now, without my wedding ring. She made no comment, concentrating instead on the conversation.

  I wanted to hug her, reassure her that I would be all right. I chose a more effective, more difficult way of accomplishing that. I forced a smile on to my face and into my eyes, burying my own misery, my own aversion to what I was about to do. I took a deep breath. "Well, if you expect me to wear silk, you need to do something about my nails." Jas turned my hands over, nodding her agreement. "And the necklace I wear with the teal silk is a white mother-of-pearl choker." Topaz jumped off the bed and bent over the jewel box. Jas squeezed my rough hands. "The one that looks like small white bones. And the pearl earrings with the gold bands."

  Suddenly the girls were bustling again, arguing good-naturedly about the tint of nail polish I should wear, and the shoes, and the movie they should see. I smiled and nodded and conceded to everything they
wanted, sheltering them from my pain and the awful, tormenting sadness that clutched at me each time I thought about being alone tonight at the symphony.

  I walked into the Blumenthal Performing Arts Center, feeling dwarfed beneath the lofty ceiling of the glass-capped Rotunda. The teal silk, fitting perfectly for the first time in ten years, was an unfortunate echo of the teal shade in the handmade Tatsumura wallpaper. I had heard the wallpaper described as being an acquired taste—a polite euphemism for the teal, orange, and white décor. But as no one else seemed to notice my color match, I tried to put it out of my mind.

  The voices of the gathered concert goers rang and echoed, bouncing off the cream-colored marble, women’s laughter high and piping, the basso of the men’s a low rumble. Snatches of conversation surrounded me: golf, music, the investment potential of a new artist, politics as they impacted on the current financial situation, a new Thai restaurant, the price of land north of town, the expected profits of a new stock, a design house opening in the Dilworth community. Mostly though, money, the new southern etiquette. A generation ago, such subjects would have been taboo in the presence of the fairer sex, appropriate only after dinner over port and cigars, while the womenfolk powdered their little noses and gossiped and did womanly things. Now, in this crowd of the elite, the women were equals in the conversations, offering advice, soliciting tips, gauging the margins of various investments.

  I stood there, alone, conscious of my tender shoulder, ribs aching each time I drew breath, knowing I should be in bed instead of here in this vast, drafty place. The medication muting the worst of the pain added an isolation that left me feeling adrift and detached.

  Wicked had tried to talk me out of coming. He had explained all the reasons why I shouldn’t leave the farm, all the danger, which I saw perfectly well, thank you. But Jas needed me to do this. Jas needed me to take up my life and live again, at least on some limited level. And after all, no one except Monica and my family knew I would be here tonight, no one. I was as safe as I could be under the circumstances, and if I was going out into the world, this was the safest place anywhere, surrounded by the privileged few, the moneyed, the elite of society.

  Wicked hadn’t liked my plans, and Macon had sat on the edge of the kitchen cabinet, his lips pursed, following our conversation with narrowed eyes, his own opinion never voiced. Macon wasn’t the type to talk until he was ready. And so here I was, alone in this crowd of high society snobs, so many like my mother, surrounded by noise and laughter and couples. Couples everywhere. And I was mate-less. I shuddered with my secret isolation while my heart cried out and I thought my face might crack open with the effort of maintaining a smile. Clutched in my hand were the two season tickets that would have seated Jack and me in the orchestra section, seventh row center. Jack’s favorite listening location.

  The girls had insisted that I bring both tickets so Monica could sit with me should her husband not be able to attend at the last second. But there, only feet away, was Emory Beck, resplendent in evening clothes, his arm around Monica, who wore the Beck sapphires against her milky flesh.

  My arm ached and I told myself it was the bruising that caused the pain, not the absence of a husband by my side, an empty black hole that had once held life, sucking into it all light, all joy, all mirth and gaiety. Fleetingly, the anger I had nursed resurfaced and my false smile faltered. Jack had left me to face this too.

  But Monica and Emory hadn’t spotted me, and without greeting my old friend and rival, I slipped away. This was far worse than I had expected. I was quivering inside, trembling like a leaf in a frigid breeze. Yet my hand holding the tickets was steady and calm, the nails pared back, smoothed, and painted pale pink.

  "I see you wore a rose." I whirled, nearly dropping the tickets. "It looks better in your hair than in the vase." The man was blond, with warm gray eyes and beautifully chiseled lips, the lower lip full and pink, in contrast to the thinner upper lip. His mouth curled into a smile, a sensual motion that startled me and brought a warm flush to my face. I took a quick, deep breath as I looked back into his eyes. There was a small pink scar in his eyebrow. "Alan . . ." The last name was a moment in coming. "Mathison?"

  He canted his head in an abbreviated bow, the smile still in place. Lifting his right hand, he touched the rose Topaz had woven into my hair. It was one of the roses he had given me days ago in the Emergency Room, the blossom open to its widest now, full and ripe and crimson in my hair. I could smell its heady aroma, the rose an affectation I had allowed, as I had allowed everything else the girls wanted for me.

  Alan had long, slender fingers, furred on the back with thin blond hair, and when he spoke, the smile was there too, in his voice. "I hope you removed the thorns."

  "Yes, I did." I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "And they are still beautiful," I added, remembering my manners.

  "The thorns?"

  I smiled then, my first real smile since I’d agreed to come out on this horrible night. "Those are sharp and painful."

  Alan chuckled and my eyes were drawn again to his lower lip. "I got your thank you note. But you didn’t have to. Really." His voice was grave and low, remembered from beneath the body of a car saying, "My wife. . . ." The memory restored my reasoning, putting things in their rightful place. Like me, Alan Mathison was truly alone.

  "It was little enough for so many roses."

  "Which were little enough for saving my life," he quipped back quickly, with a wicked little grin.

  I looked away from his mouth and smiled again, taking refuge in propriety. "Do you attend the symphony often?"

  "No." Leaning toward me, he rested his weight on a shiny black cane that I only now noticed, and lowered his voice. "Don’t tell anyone, but this stuff puts me to sleep."

  "Never," I said, putting my hand to my chest.

  He chuckled again at my mock outrage, his voice still low. "I’m only here because my boss couldn’t come, and someone had to represent the company at the Patrons’ Party."

  My smile faded, but thanks to my mother’s rigorous training, the proper words were there, ready for use. "Onerous duty indeed," I managed. "Who is your employer?"

  "I’m a vice president at Taylor, Inc. If you attend a lot of these things, you may know my boss, Jerel Taylor."

  The name rang a curious bell. Jerel Taylor was a developer, like Jack, but had several generations of good green money to sustain his company. Taylor Developments, Inc. had expanded into half a dozen nearby states, buying up unused farmland and putting up regional malls and upscale housing. Jerel was also one of the investors financing Davenport Hills, along with perhaps a dozen of the other concert goers I would see in the theater or at the party afterwards. Jerel Taylor had been a difficult man to work with, demanding a say in the layout of the golf courses, making changes that the golf course architect had fought against and won. But it hadn’t been a pretty battle. He was known to be an exacting taskmaster and a hard man to please.

  Of course, Jack’s opinion of Jerel had been phrased in terms a bit more extreme. I think his exact words were skinflint, barbarian, bloodsucker, cannibal, and criminal, interspersed with other, less favorable and more obscene descriptions. These judgments I kept to myself. "I’ve met Jerel, of course, and I’m familiar with the company. Have you worked there long?"

  "Six years. Before that I was with several different investors and developers."

  A low gong sounded, a melodious tone over the sound system. In the background, dissonant notes competed for attention, dueling in off key rivalry as the musicians tuned their instruments on stage. I hadn’t even noticed the sound.

  Alan looked at the two ticket stubs he held, and his full lower lip turned down a moment. It was wet, I noticed with a slight shock, and looked away. My preoccupation with his mouth was surprising and awkward. It wasn’t a sexual response, I didn’t detect that in myself at all. I wasn’t ready for a man in my life yet, and fully recognized that I might never be. Yet, something drew my eyes to Alan’s lips ag
ain. "I don’t suppose you know anyone who might want an extra ticket? Jerel insisted that I take both season seats, but I’m just not ready to . . . ask anyone to join me."

  Date. He meant he wasn’t ready to ask a woman out on a date. I held out my own tickets, slightly crumpled now, from being held in my fist. "How about we try and scalp two."

  It made Alan laugh again, and I quite liked his laugh. It was unaffected, not overly boisterous. Totally unlike Jack’s gregarious, join-with-me laugh.

  The crowd was moving slowly toward the open doorways, the vast darkened space beyond beckoning with wordless dissonance. Alan raised his voice and took my elbow, turning me toward the doorways with the hand that held his cane. "Better yet, why don’t you join me. You can elbow me when I start to snore so I don’t embarrass myself."

  I took the tickets he proffered and checked the seats. His hand was warm through the silk of my blouse, the knob of his cane sharp against my elbow, and it occurred to me suddenly why my reaction to him was so intense. No one had smiled at me or talked to me about anything except grief or work or problems in weeks. And certainly no one had shown me the courtesy of guiding me toward an open doorway, his hand lightly on my arm. I was . . . lonely.

  The memory of Robyn’s love letters dangled in the back of my mind like bait on a string, adding another explanation, but I ignored the lure of bitterness.

  Alan’s seats were in the Mezzanine section, adequate, but not as good as mine. Surprising, because Taylor, Inc. could have afforded a seasonal box with no strain. But then, Jerel Taylor was known as a tightfisted man, and I doubted he had any appreciation of fine music. He probably preferred tunes that came out of a juke box, the kind with neon bubbles traveling around to the beat of some whiny song.