by Gwen Hunter
It wasn’t a side of my mother I had ever seen. And I didn’t know where this talk of my mother was coming from when I had assumed the reverend was here to comfort me about Jack. I nodded, confused.
"Your mother never forgave her father, Ashlee. She never forgave him for the pain of his deceit and deception. And it’s that unforgiving spirit that made her so hard and unyielding." Reverend Perry gently squeezed my fingers. "Ashlee. Robyn came to see me."
I don’t know what my face showed other than clear and complete shock. The reverend nodded, his eyes on mine. It was impossible to look away from Reverend Perry’s blue eyes. Always had been. He patted my upper arm in a way I usually hate, and smiled again. I couldn’t even respond. I just stared at him. "She told me what you said. What you had discovered."
How dare she! The thought washed through me like a tidal wave, obliterating everything before it. I took a deep breath, as painful as the words he had spoken. How dare she!
Reverend Perry went on, reading my emotions, seeing my soul as clearly as if I had no skin stretched over it. As if I were a cancer he diagnosed and excised, digging around inside. I pulled my hand away. "She came to me some years ago, when she and Jack were ending their affair. She came because she couldn’t deal with the guilt and the pain and the lies that stood between you two. She knew she had done you a great wrong." His words rocked me.
Anger roared through me. I stepped back, a single pace from the good pastor, my eyes on his face. "You knew," I whispered, my words faint and breathless. "You knew and didn’t— You and who else?" The words ripped from me, rough, fierce, coarse as a rusted rasp. "Who else knew and didn’t tell me?"
Reverend Perry’s blue eyes bored into me, steady and firm. He patted my arm, and I jerked away, waiting for the answer to my question. Waiting for my world to totter and lurch once again. "Only me, Ashlee. So far as I know, I was the only one they ever told. And so far as I know, no one else ever guessed."
I swallowed down the taste of bile, burning acid. "And you decided not to tell me. You decided to keep it a secret all hidden away and buried like the filthy thing it really was." The words heaved in my chest. I could hear the sound of my breath, rough and harsh, like something external to me, foreign and malignant.
Reverend Perry kept his eyes on me. Too blue. Too piercing. "And if I had told you about the affair, when it was over and done, what then? Would you have left Jack? Destroyed your family? Agonized over the dishonor they did you as you tried to rebuild your life alone? Would you have tried to work it out? Or suffered with it for all the years you had left together?"
I tore my eyes away from the reverend. Away from the truth in his blue gaze. He had always been good at making me see truth even when I didn’t want to. Now, of all times in my life, I didn’t want to hear his version of truth. I stared out over the farm where I had lived my life with Jack.
In the distance, an early owl hunted, gliding through the trees, silent, wings outspread. It was a big owl, gray in the falling light. By day it might have been strawberry blond or striped gray. Landing, it weighted a branch, folded its wide wings, and perched, watching the pasture and woodlands below. Patient. Waiting. Just like Reverend Perry waited for my answer.
Swallowing again, I gripped my upper arms as if I was cold, holding myself together by force of will. Seconds ticked by as I struggled with my fury. Finally, my anger began to ease, and it was my hurt, my wounded spirit, that surfaced. I remembered the disbelief, the intense pain I felt when I saw the photographs of Jack and Robyn. Searing anguish; numbness that followed. I remembered the peculiar thought that the photographs had burned out my grief like a surgical cautery. Finally, my eyes still on the owl, I said, "I’ve thought about that. Thought about what I would have done had I been told back then. And I might have left Jack for a while. And I know I would have suffered." Tears began to form again, and my owl wavered though he didn’t move.
"But I also know I would have worked through it. I would have been able to forgive him, and I would have gone on with my marriage. And yes it would have been hard. But at least it would have been a living, breathing person I had to forgive, and not just a memory. At least Jack would have been here to work through it with me. Here for me to yell at and even hit if I wanted to. Here to shout back. To explain. To say he still loved me. Instead, I’m alone. And I was alone when I found the pictures of Jack and Robyn in his desk drawer, right there, easy at hand, where he could pull them out and stare at them and fantasize over them." Tears pooled in my eyes, a glimmering wetness that obscured the world. I took a deep breath. "Dozens of well-fingered, well-worn photographs of my husband and my best friend having sex."
I looked at Reverend Perry. It was clear he hadn’t known about the photographs.
"I’m alone with that," I said, my throat tight. "Alone with my anger and hurt, my absolute knowledge that my husband never put Robyn away. That she was always there in his mind and his heart and that I was never enough for him. So don’t come here ready to help me forgive an old sin, Reverend Perry, because the sin isn’t old and dead. Not to Jack. And not to me.
"It’s a fresh sin I’m dealing with. A fresh betrayal that Jack kept close to his heart, hidden and precious, right there in his desk drawer so that if anything ever happened to him, I would have no choice but to find out all about it." I wiped my eyes, finally, with the back of my hand. Cocking my head, my breath strident, I looked away from the compassion and the tenderness in my old mentor’s eyes. He had come to offer a shoulder to cry on, words of wisdom. Yet, the sin and the situation weren’t exactly what he had prepared for. I wasn’t exactly what he had prepared for. Had I changed so much? My tears dried, leaving my eyes hot and burning, fiery as the setting sun that silhouetted my owl.
"Jack never left anything to chance. Not ever. He left those pictures, kept those pictures, exactly where he wanted them. Exactly so that I would find them. A punishment to me because I had kept him from his true love. Or perhaps it was a punishment to us both. Either way, he left them there on purpose. I’ve had to accept that, and use the knowledge to make me strong."
"Strong or hard?" Reverend Perry countered gently, reminding me of my mother in his story. I blinked into the trees and found my owl again. He was eating, now, a mouse held in his claws, his beak dipping and tearing. Remarkably like what the good reverend was doing to my soul. I shrugged, my eyes dry, my heart as hard as Reverend Perry had suggested. "Will you let me pray with you, Ashlee?"
"You can always pray for me Preacher." Not catching the distinction, or choosing not to, Reverend Perry took my hands. I kept my eyes on the eating owl. I had never watched an owl dine. The predator bird was delicate and fastidious as it shredded the still wriggling animal.
"Father, we come to You, flawed and wounded . . ."
I wondered what it was eating. I originally thought mouse, but it was too large.
". . . grieving and angry. We stand together, two in Your Name as the scriptures say . . ."
Perhaps it was a young rabbit. Or an opossum that fell from its mother’s back.
". . . asking intercession for Ashlee, who has withdrawn from You."
Not really, Preacher. Not withdrawn from God. Just withdrawn from Jack. I wanted to say it. I wanted to interrupt. But I didn’t.
"She is empty inside and alone. Bleeding, the prey of angry thoughts . . ."
Perhaps it was a young squirrel. They sometimes fell from their nests and died from the elements or became dinner for some predator. It was bleeding, dead now, which was what Reverend Perry was saying about me, inside. Interesting comparison. Me and the owl’s supper.
"Give her peace, Father, the peace that passes human understanding. Your peace . . ."
The owl lifted off its perch, the tree shaking with the loss of its weight. The big bird dropped several feet, spread its wings and beat the air. A scrap of dinner dangled from its beak.
". . . help her find the way to grieve, and give her insight into the nature of her love for Jack. A love
that was itself pure, though the recipient of that love may not have been . . ."
The owl angled its flight through the trees, its path so smooth it appeared to pass through the branches rather than around them.
". . . in the Name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen."
"Amen," I said. And wondered what he had prayed.
He patted my hand and walked to his car. He opened his door and put a foot inside. Then he looked up at me. "You can come to me anytime Ashlee. Whenever you are ready to talk. Even if it’s the middle of the night, you can call. I’ll be here. And I’ll come." I nodded stiffly. The car started, the door closed, and the car pulled down the drive. I went back to my wine, turning my back on the drive, picking up the water-beaded glass. Putting it to my lips. Sipping, I sat down on the step, my back to the receding car, my shoulder against the corner board of the porch wall.
The sun was setting fast now, a great orange ball settling into a wide, plum-colored sea of low lying clouds. Dropping down over the rim of the world, and plunging toward night. It was stunning. Reverend Perry was gone. So was the owl. The air was still and cool, the heat melting from the world. I was too warm to shiver.
Voices echoed from the barn: Bish and Wicked’s deep notes, Jas’ lilting laughter. A car roared up the drive, moving fast. Back tires fish-tailed on the loose gravel. The preacher’s car? It sounded similar, though less patient, engine racing. Something he forgot to tell me? Some nugget of wisdom he thought might pull me back into the fold? Make me forgive the unforgivable? I looked through the trees as a pickup roared up the drive, one of Jasmine’s friends, I thought, speeding like a dirt-track racer, grinding ruts in the gravel. Jack had complained about them, lecturing the boys who came to call. Now I would have to do the honors. But tonight . . . I was just too tired. I drained my glass, the wine tart on my almost empty stomach. The truck stopped. The door opened, its engine still running. I stood and put down my glass. I didn’t really want to be difficult. I didn’t want to make a scene. There had been too many of those.
Big Dog growled at a running figure. A man, not a boy. I could hear the slamming pace of his hard soled shoes crunching gravel.
Before I could react, he was on me. Picked me up by my arm. My body left the ground. Space and time went thick and viscous, like clotting blood. My feet flew. I watched them, as if they were something apart from me. Out of my control. They kicked the porch screen, impacting with twanging snaps that loosed it from the supports. I was irrationally distressed at the damaged screen, more concerned about it than afraid for myself. And then my complacency shattered. I slammed against the porch screening. In almost slow motion, I bounced off, seeing the sky and then the grass.
Big Dog went wild, a howling bark. Ramming himself at me. His claws scratching the metal mesh at my face. Forgetful of the new doggie door.
"You bitch! Where is he?" The voice was low, as guttural and harsh as my dog’s. And just as mindless with fury. My eyes widened. Sucking in air like a drowning victim, I could think of nothing to say. This wasn’t the man I was trying to draw out. This wasn’t the man who smelled like death. The world grew darker and slowed, moving in half time, like the arrested motion of an old film out of sync. "Where is he?" Teeth bared at my throat. Human teeth, snarling. His hands twisted, bruising. I should have fainted or screamed. Instead, the shock gathering at the back of my throat broke free. And I giggled. I didn’t mean to. I tried to hold it in. But it burst through my lips in a helpless little titter. A rush of vulnerable, tiny notes, nervous and frivolous. I swallowed the sound, biting my lip.
His eyes opened wider, wild, maniacal eyes. He crushed me against a post holding up the screen porch. Secured me there with the press of his body. His breath gusted against my face. Not rancid. Mints. Big Dog’s claws ripped through the screen at my side, piercing it. I thought only a steel blade could pierce the metal netting. I giggled again, uncontrolled and shaking.
"Where is he! Where is he, you bitch!"
The weight of his body was suddenly gone. Lifted away from me. I fell to the gravel beside the porch steps. Catching myself. My palms bruised and cut by the sharp stone.
I heard a grunt and a thump. The attacker slammed to the ground only feet away. Bish dropped atop him, pulling the man’s arms up and back. The man cried out, his wail like a wounded animal. Big Dog bolted through the torn screen. Launched himself at the man on the ground and sank his long teeth into the handcuffed arm. The man screamed.
I sank to the ground, a hand over my mouth, covering a fatuous, witless smile. Thinking how I should be afraid, even now that it was all over. But somehow, I wasn’t frightened. There hadn’t been time for me to respond. Maybe it was the wine that caused my detachment. If so I’d have another glass, I thought, as I sat on the ground. Maybe two . . .
I put my arm around Jasmine who was making as much noise as Big Dog and his victim, screaming and crying and prodding me all over. This semi-medical examination was becoming a habit. I’d have to give her some pointers. Jas poked too hard.
I drank a second glass of wine as we waited for the cops. And a third glass as my attacker was searched, identified, read his rights, and placed in the deputy’s car. It was Bill McKelvey, the curser who threatened me on the phone. The man who blamed Jack for his financial problems. The man who had seemed not quite sane. He was still raving even now. And Big Dog was still barking a constant, frenzied, verbal attack, though Jas had him on a heavy-duty leash tied to the porch. My canine protector hated William McKelvey. As he barked, I considered the possibility that McKelvey had killed Hokey and Herman and shot Big Dog, had tacked Herman’s ear to the barn door and sent the awful photograph. Even through my wine haze it didn’t add up. If I could only focus; I wanted to work it through, wanted to think. Instead, I drank more wine.
By the time the deputy drove away, McKelvey in his car, blue lights flashing against the trees on the drive, I was well along on my fourth glass, humming an old hymn off key. Happy. Content. One bad guy down. One to go. And then the phone rang. I never would have answered had Jas not insisted. Which meant I would have missed out on the rest of the day’s fun. God—had to be God to organize things so cleverly—had even more planned to enliven my evening, and by then I was just drunk enough to enjoy it. A tad unwillingly, I picked up the personal line. "Ashlee Davenport, although I’m a Chadwick at heart," I said, winking at my daughter. Jas rolled her eyes and looked at Bish. Something about that look bothered me, but before I could figure out what, Macon spoke.
"Ash. It’s Macon."
I knew that. After all, I had drunk only . . . was it four glasses?
"There’s been a break-in."
"Of course there has," I agreed. My words slightly slurred. "And we got him."
"How did you know that?"
"I was here."
"But . . . the break in was at the office. At Chadwick, Gaston, and Chadwick."
"Nope. It was here at the house. Only he didn’t really break in ’cause Bish and Big Dog jumped on him, and he’s on his way to jail. Only," I confided, "I think he’s lost his cookies—no. Not his cookies. That means he threw up. He’s lost his marbles. And I think he’ll go to the state mental facility unless his family gets him sent to wherever they send crazy people in North Carolina, cause he’s lost his marbles. Am I repeating myself?"
Macon chuckled. I could picture his lopsided mouth with all the molars exposed on the left side. Or was it the right? "Ashlee. Are you inebriated?"
"You always were so very polite," I said. "Even as a child. An’, yes. I think I am drunk. You wanna talk to Wicked?"
"Please." I could hear amusement in Macon’s voice, and thought that maybe I should be insulted, but we Chadwicks were too well bred to be insulted over trifles. I lifted my chin, handed the phone to Wicked and went down the hall toward my shower. I nearly fell over Jack’s golf clubs. Wonderful things, Jack’s clubs. I might never move them. I might need them again one day. I giggled and it didn’t sound like me at all. I w
as polluted. Sloshed.
Moving slowly, I turned on hot water and pulled off my soiled clothes. My arms where McKelvey grabbed me were painful. It seemed all I did these days was get bruised. I had to start taking better care of myself real soon.
Hot water pounded down over my head, diluting the worries of the long day, easing the cramp of muscles crushed and squeezed by my husband’s business partner. One down. One to go.
I smiled into the steam and the pounding water. Yet, somehow I wasn’t the least bit surprised when the shower door opened and Jas pulled me out into the cold room. I stood there, naked and dripping, as my daughter said, "Mom. They caught the guy who attacked us."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With all the dignity I could muster, I drank down a quart of coffee. I had chosen a bad night to overindulge, but how was I to know that a man with severe halitosis would break into Macon’s office tonight? I had assumed that being prayed over and then apprehending one bad guy would be sufficient excitement for one night. I hadn’t expected to participate in a line up.
It was a singular experience. Mostly sober, wide awake, with the beginnings of a throbbing headache, I walked along a line of men and sniffed each. One man smelled of unwashed body, rank and gamy. Another smelled of old beer. Two were relatively pleasant, though one of them wore too much cologne. It had a musk base, thick and cloying. I wandered what form of wildlife such a scent was supposed to attract.
The fourth man smelled of decomposing meat. Rank and potent.
In front of him, I paused and sniffed again. It was the same foul scent, the harsh, putrid reek of the man in the Soiled Utility Room and the gazebo. Lifting my eyes, I stared at him. Standing beneath the number 4 sign was a lanky, rope-thin man, tall, with evasive brown eyes and a stubble of brown beard. He had a bruise on his right cheek, which could have been made by a golf club. A second bruise marked his Adam’s apple. Four scratches cut into the flesh beneath his left eye. Jasmine’s fingernails. She’d scratched him. I smiled and it wasn’t pretty.
