7
BUMBLING TO MY FEET, I stumbled into the house, groped the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen, swallowed three capsules, and downed a full glass of water. Weaving my way to the den, I flopped onto the couch and passed out again. My sleep interfused with images of Ashleigh. Ashleigh straddling me laughing and flirting, her beads pressing against my neck. Ashleigh in white thigh-high stockings with snakes crawling all over her naked body. Ashleigh's lips against mine. Ashleigh biting a hole in my cheek.
At 6:30 a.m., I awoke trembling. My clothes were still wet and every inch of my body ached. The last thing I could remember was passing out on Ashleigh's bed. God, what must she think of me?
I tripped up the stairs, toppled into the shower, and stripped away my clothes. There were scratches on the back of my right hand. I wondered how I'd gotten them, how I'd gotten home, and if I'd made a fool of myself doing it. I turned the water on and lay under it for twenty minutes waiting for it to wash away the cobwebs and strange images, then cranked it up as hot as I could stand it and cleaned up.
Dressing for work, I noticed the deep gash stretching along my left jaw from ear to chin. Upon closer examination I found a second, smaller cut above my right eye. I poured antiseptic into the cuts and shaved. Descending the stairs, I found the note reminding me to stop by Mom's on the way to work.
MY PARENTS' TWO-STORY ROW HOUSE had been gloomy and forsaken back when I grew up in it and it appeared no differently now. The back door was unlocked and Dad sat at the dinette table reading The Morning Star in a faded plaid housecoat. His thin gray hair was combed straight back and lay flat against his head. His eyebrows were thick and grew together in a single line that made him appear to be in a constant state of disapproval.
He and I had never seen eye to eye on anything. Nothing. Not ever. I gave up trying to win his affirmation a long time ago. I just tried to stay out of his way and not give him any excuse to come down on me. Mom set out a fresh cup of coffee for me as I came in.
"Thanks, Mom." I kissed her cheek.
She took my jaw in her hand and twisted it to the side squinting those Bette Davis eyes at me. "What happened to your face?"
"Scratched it in the bushes last night," I sighed throwing a leg over a chair and sitting across from Dad.
"Where you been?" he grumbled without even looking around the newspaper. "I thought you were coming early this morning."
Mom flashed me her "Don't Say Anything" look and pursed her lips. I reached for the sugar. "I said I'd come by on my way to work. I'm on my way to work."
He popped the paper to straighten it. "I just don't understand how come a boy who ain't even got a job is always running late."
Mom sighed. "Now don't go starting in on Richie, Gus. He came by to help you with that bed. Now let him be."
"Why is that, boy?" he asked.
I lifted a spoon and stirred my coffee. "I'm self-employed, Dad."
He rattled his paper again. "That's why you ain't got no wife. A woman wants to see a paycheck every week. Somethin' she can count on."
"For Heaven's sake, Dad. Are you ever going to get over the fact that I work for myself?"
"You kids today don't know what work is. I was on that car lot at seven o'clock every morning. The early bird catches the worm, I tell you. Thomas Jefferson said that. People's known it for a long time."
I lifted the coffee cup. "I think it was Ben Franklin, Dad."
The paper jerked away and his open hand smacked the side of my face with a loud crack. My coffee cup bowled across the table spewing its hot contents over the table and me. "Always the smart-ass, ain't cha?" he glared.
As I came up out of my chair, Mom clutched her arms around me from behind. "Stop it!" she screamed. "Both of you!"
I snatched the towel from her shoulder and dabbed at the hot coffee burning through my pants. "Jesus! You want my help or not?"
Dad crushed the paper against the table. "Go on to work! I don't need your help."
I threw the cloth on the table, wrenched out of Mom's hold, and left the room. The head of Martha's convalescent bed was raised and her hands skimmed back and forth over the laptop sitting on a stand in front of her. She had a pencil tucked behind an ear and a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose.
She sensed I was there, but didn't look up. "Hi."
I tried to hide my anger. "Morning, Babe."
Her fingers continued dancing over the keyboard. "Just need to get this thought down."
I crossed to the window and looked out. It was not much of a view. A tree. The street. The houses across the street. This had been the dining room when we grew up, but the only time I remembered dining in here was at Thanksgiving every other year. I moved to her side and sat on the edge of the bed facing away from her. "What are you working on?"
"It's a surprise." She finished with a flurry of keystrokes and lowered the screen. "It's a novel. Give me a few more days. Then I'll let you see it. I'm dying to get your thoughts on it." I flopped back and lay next to her staring at the fake chandelier hanging from the ceiling. "Gosh, what happened to your face?" she asked.
I shook my head. "I don't know. Scratched it."
She raised her body off the mattress and winced as she slid down to get more comfortable. "Mom said you had a date last night. Did she do that?"
"It wasn't a date. It was the woman next door asking if I could help her get her power back on."
"Is she married?"
I cut my eyes at her. "No, she isn't married, and she's way too young for me."
"How young?"
"Twenty...something."
"So? Girls like older men."
Dad slumped into the room, gripped the foot of the bed, grunted, and lifted it off the floor. "Let's get this done. Ain't nobody going to keep a man that shows up late for work."
I rolled off the bed and moved to the headboard. "I work for myself, Dad. I'm not going to fire myself."
He dropped the foot of the bed. "You want to do this or not?"
Martha groaned from the jarring.
"Hey! Take it easy, will you?"
Dad had short, thick legs, a barrel chest, and a day-old gray beard. He leaned his wide body over the foot of the bed and grabbed hold again. I must have taken after the men on Mom's side of the family. Tall and slender.
We raised the bed and shifted it around so Martha could face the front window.
"That's it. Right there," she announced. "Hey, would you look at that?" She aimed a finger at the window.
From behind her I had a clear view of the sidewalk and the houses across the street. "What?"
"That bird."
A red and black bird hopped along a branch to a nest under construction in the maple tree a few feet from the window.
"It's a Cardinal," she said.
"This where you want it?" Dad asked.
"Oh, yes. This is perfect."
"Anything else you need, Darling?" he asked.
"No. This is great, Daddy. Thanks."
He kissed her forehead, then cut his eyes at me as he left. I moved the roll-around cart with her lamp and laptop back within reach of the bed. She grabbed my arm. "Don't let Daddy get to you like that." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's going through a lot right now."
"Like what?"
"They told him he needs by-pass surgery."
I pulled my hand from under hers and circled the bed. "Well, that doesn't give him the right to—"
"He's not going to do it, Rich."
I lowered myself back onto the bed facing her. "Why not?"
"He's afraid."
"Him? Afraid of what?"
"Afraid he'll die on the table."
"Well, that still doesn't give him the right—"
"Would you stop thinking about yourself for a minute? He needs your support."
"Yeah, right. If he's stupid enough not to have the surgery, then he deserves what he gets."
She rose on her elbows and glared at me. "Richie! What's gotten into you today?"
I didn't like the tone in my voice or the disappointment in her eyes and I certainly didn't want to say or do anything that would drive a wedge between the two of us. "You're right. I'm sorry." I slid off the bed and headed for the door.
"Richie, wait. Please don't go yet." Her head dropped back against the pillows. I stopped at the door and looked back. She shifted her position on the bed and I could see that it was painful. I stepped back to her side. "You okay?"
She raised again off the mattress and grimaced as she repositioned herself. "It-just hurts a little."
"You want something for it?"
She closed her eyes and rocked her head slowly. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "No, not yet. I don't like to take it when I'm writing." She squeezed her eyes shut, pressed a hand to her side, and panted.
"You sure you're okay?"
"I've been having a lot of pain in my lower back lately. I hope it means I'll be getting some use of my legs back."
"God, wouldn't that be wonderful?"
She couldn't hide the pain in her voice. "If I don't have the pain to go along with it."
I patted her arm. Seeing her in pain was hard to tolerate sometimes and I had to leave. "I'll see you later."
She opened her eyes and forced a smile. "Forget her age. Take that girl out again. You need a wife."
Truth was, if I could find a wife like my sister, I'd marry her today—wheelchair and all.
At work, the projects were routine and uneventful—typical for a Monday, but I couldn't get Ashleigh out of my head. Why doesn't she call? I passed a mirror in the hall, stopped, and backed up. What would a girl like that see in me? There were dark splotches under my eyes. My skin felt tight and drawn. My God, is that a patch of gray hair? Where does the time go?
I wanted to call and apologize to her for last night and see if we could get her shooting scheduled, but I couldn't find a listing for her and decided if she didn't call, I'd knock on her door after I got home. By noon I was feeling much better. By late afternoon, more like my usual self.
When I arrived home that evening, the street was crowded with police cars and trucks. There were so many I couldn't even tell which house was involved. I eased through all the vehicles, pulled into my garage, and let the door close the world out behind me.
I'd just poured myself a scotch when the doorbell rang. As I approached the door, I could see three men crowding the porch. Sam Jones was one of them—the gumshoe that let my sister down. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. Sam looked up. He had dark brown skin, the beak-like nose of an Indian, and a patch of white flesh that covered his right eyelid. I'd always wanted to ask about it, but it never seemed the right time.
"How's Martha doing these days?" he asked.
"She seems to get a little better each day."
"I'm glad to hear that. Do you know a young lady by the name of Ashleigh Matthews?"
My heart dropped into my belly and I could feel the blood draining from my face. "She lives next door. Why? Has something happened?"
"May we come in?"