Chapter 2
Later that evening Ashe found himself finally returning home after a long day, one filled with a new inmate, unanswered phone calls, and a creeping headache that never seemed to move into the frontal cortex of his brain. It remained in the back of the mind, lurking and threatening, slightly throbbing, showing him the potential of further pain that might arrive at any moment. He would rather have the full agony and discomfort and get it over with. He didn't care for the lingering and the possible, he only wanted to experience the present and not worry over what could get him from the shadows.
Hit the obstacle head on, Ashe always believed. Hit it with a truck and the drive by. Hitting the obstacle, though, meant seeing and understanding it, which was often easier said than done.
The sun was setting behind Ashe as he pulled into the driveway. It was becoming nothing but a sliver on the horizon, growing smaller and smaller, like a closing eye. Even though some daylight still shone, it was late in the evening. The springtime was letting the day hours and the daylight hang round longer and later than the winter had.
While sitting and watching the sun as it shrunk, he felt his own eyes growing heavy. The long day had drained him, as the night will drain the light from the day. He thought about sleep and wondered how much he would actually get. What would keep him awake? He would have to wait and see. Some nights he was able to get to bed at a decent hour, but most of the time something kept him awake. Work mostly. Research on the internet. Reviewing session note.
Ashe loved his quiet, quaint little home. He lived in Mineral Ridge, which was a comfortable distance from Youngstown and the madness that seemed to go with the little city. Youngstown was small compared to the nearby Cleveland but large in many ways, like in poverty and crime and bankrupted businesses. It had once been a central community in what had been known as the “Steel Belt” of America, but that steel eventually rusted. Even though the steel mills began to dry up, the little city held on for many years but the most recent recession had not been kind, leaving abandoned buildings and desperate people and helpless despair in its wake. But that was nothing strange or rare in that part of Ohio. The recession had come through like a roaring tornado, sucking up hope and jobs only to drop them in Mexico or across the ocean in places like India.
Leaving work to return to his home in the quiet suburbs was like going from one world into another, as if returning to reality after leaving OZ. Except that he wouldn't be caught dead in ruby red footwear. He might get mugged for them.
The chill of the coming night was already setting down around him. A shiver touched his neck when he exited his 4-door Mazda. Grasping his black leather case, Ashe hurried into his white house, ready for the quiet of his home. But instead of appreciating the silence and solitude his small house gave him, the psychologist power walked over to his answering machine which hung from the kitchen wall. The black box only ever showed one message on its digital dial. Only ever one. Yet, Ashe looked and saw a red number two blinking on the dial, meaning that he had a new unheard message waiting for him.
It blinked like a beacon.
A message from Scott?
Ever since he had gotten his cell phone many years ago, no one ever called the house phone. And he never used the landline to call out. Cell phones had taken over long ago and home phone were falling away, following the fate of the short-lived car phone. He sometimes thought it pointless to still have the phone line, and yet was certain that he would never, ever have it disconnected, unless he was one day forced by the phone company to do so.
After setting his briefcase on to the marble top of his kitchen's island, Ashe quickly played the message. “Hello, Ashe. I think that I got the number right, you didn't say your name in the message. I guess I will leave a message anyway.” Giggle. “Oh...right...this is Katherine Wright...and I believe that we have a date tonight. At 9 o'clock...eastern standard time. Just calling to see if it was still happening. Maybe I am just a little nervous about having a date with someone until I at least hear their voice. That is against the rule of blind dates, I know. Sorry. I hope...that you are well. If...the plans have changed...you have my number. I am pretty sure that your sister gave it to you. If not...I will see you in a couple. Bye-bye.”
Damn! The message wasn't from Scott. It was from the woman that his sister Sarah insisted that he meet, as if he needed his sister to fix him up on dates. It was true that Ashe hadn't been on a date since…in quite a while, but he also wasn't lonely, or at least didn't feel lonely. Why would he date, if it was not out of loneliness? Wasn't that why people dated?
Solitude sometimes comforted Ashe. Even though he knew the longing for companionship was natural and healthy, he understood the comfort that isolation often brought him. Perhaps he was in denial. He admitted it to be a real possibility. Sometimes, though, denial was a happier pasture, covered in green grass and roaming cattle.
Lost in thought, Ashe forgot to push STOP on the answering machine. A few feet from the sink, on his way to get a cold beer, he froze in place. A familiar voice sung out from the machine's speakers.
“Sweetheart,” a woman spoke. “Love you. Love you.” The voice was soft and delicate and forced Ashe to choke on air as if it were solid. “I just wanted to let you know...” before the woman could continue, he jumped at the machine and silenced her.
She had been his wife. Susanne. And she had been gone for a little over 4 years. Ashe would do anything to keep her voice alive, even if it meant paying a bill for a nearly obsolete phone service based on the slim chance that canceling the service would cause him to lose the message. Yet, at the same time, he rarely allowed himself to listen to the message. There had been a time, however, years before, when he would have listened to the message over and over. It was a sick and sad compulsion. It was not a way to mourn his wife, however, but a way to torture himself, forcing himself to relieve the pain and blame, again and again. Self-destructive. Ashe knew. But at the time he felt that he had deserved repeated injury.
Hearing the voice of his wife had become something that he both coveted and avoided. One day, someday, eventually, he might be able to let the message go, but that day was far off over the horizon, which made him immediately feel guilty about the looming blind date.
Ashe repeated the message from Katherine and then deleted it.
He had time to shower and change and make it to the date, if he hurried. The night was never simple, no matter how much Ashe sometimes wanted it to be. No early bedtime for him, again. There always seemed to be someone new to meet, question, and diagnose, except this time it was supposed to be leisure, pleasure, instead of work. He wondered if he still knew how to meet someone for casual talk, simple conversation.
It was worth a try.
What could it hurt?
Ashes to Ashes Page 3
