Body of Ash (41 page)

With his charm and charisma, he could have easily led one of those mega churches in Texas, either that or be the next Pat Roberts and host his own televangelist show. It was a shame that he never applied himself while he had the chance. Or worse, didn’t accept or return the love of his wife and only daughter.

Instead he chose to turn to that despicable woman. No education, no self-respect, Marge was no better than the dirt she walked on. It wasn’t enough that Brian wanted to sleep with her the night he should have been searching for Rachel – the callous whore had to take him away forever.

You stupid, stupid man.
Why didn’t you see what you had?

It was hard deciding how much she should tell Rachel. The nature of Brian’s death wasn’t easy to verbalize let alone explain in conversation to their daughter. He wasn’t at the Finch home for a Bible study. Angela refused to paint him as a saint, even if doing so made life easier to pretend. Rachel knew her father was involved with Marge. At least Angela didn’t have to break that news first.

That night on the sidewalk outside of the Church of Christ, Rachel insisted she would stand by Angela’s side if she decided to pursue a divorce. The sentiment meant everything at the time, making her thankful Rachel was old enough to see her parents had frailties. Knowing she was able to carry through with that support with her father’s death made Angela grateful. Still, she wished she could shield her daughter from some of the details.

The next person in line grabbed Sylvia in an embrace. Her mother’s rigid body language was tense, like standing two inches from a cobra, curled and ready to strike. Out of the corner of her eye, Angela wondered if Sylvia would crack, and tell the gentleman to back off.  But after the past week of being surrounded by strangers, even Sylvia made a point to accept the condolences of New Hope’s church family.
Hugs and all.

Moving on to Angela, Martin McNally didn’t waver as he enfolded her into his arms. “Angela,” he said, “I’m so very sorry.” Wearing his custom cowboy hat with a black denim dress shirt and onyx bolo, the fifty-year-old smelled of his familiar Old Spice aftershave.

“Thank you Martin.”

Leaning close, he breathed, “You should know, the elders and I have discussed it and we want to continue financial support to you and Rachel for as long as you need it. Brian was charitable with his time and meeting the needs of the church. Often that included advising some of us in ways we could conquer our sin without hurting our families. We’ll never forget that, which is why we would like to help meet your needs now that he is gone.”

That is an odd thing to say.

Martin touched her arm, continuing to detail how the church still needed Angela to guide the committees she oversaw. Angela found it hard to focus on his words. She knew what he was trying to convey. They still considered her the pastor’s wife and although it wasn’t exactly a position, it required a time commitment and respect. The elders wanted her to maintain that role now that Brian was gone.

“After all,” Martin said, concluding his thoughts, “it will take quite a while to find a reverend qualified to fill Brian’s shoes and the one we do select, may be single and need your experience with how the church runs.” 

Martin stepped back studying her expression for signs she understood. Angela knew his words were spoken with kindness. If there was one thing she could say about New Hope, the congregation had a few members that were genuinely good people. Martin McNally was one of them.

But did Angela want this? Did she want to maintain the image she had crafted for years as Mrs. Brian Jones? All of the effort that went in to pretending she was happy, esteemed, graceful – just so everyone would buy the lie that the Jones family were Christlike. The clothes, the house, the titles – none of it truly brought happiness. Behind her practiced smile was a lonely woman who had isolated her daughter and longed for her husband to be a different man. Taking Martin’s offer would mean keeping up the pretense that the life she had shared with Brian was a blessed one.

I can’t do it.

“Thank you Martin, but Rachel and I should be fine,” she said. “I have a nest egg put away. I would rather the church focus on finding a new pastor then worry about us.”

Pulling free from his hand, Angela shifted towards Rachel.  “I’m going to excuse myself to the ladies room. Will you be okay?”

Circles haunted Rachel’s eyes, but the teen smiled. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in a minute and then you can go sit down for a while.”

Once in the ladies room, Angela was relieved the row of sinks were unoccupied.  Stepping up to the mirror, she inspected her pale reflection. Large hazel eyes stared back at her, looking as shadowed as Rachel’s.  Maybe it was the solemn blazer and trousers, maybe it was her difficulty sleeping – either way, she looked much older than a woman of forty-one. Angela’s mother insisted she wear her hair swept back into a French knot and a single row of pearls. It felt wrong selecting clothes to wear to a wake. 

With a quick brush of air carrying a cloud of perfume, Betsy Bunts breezed in. Her love for Shalimar was overwhelming. Brian used to joke the woman smelled like a French whore house, but Angela knew Betsy’s overuse of the fragrance was due to the older woman’s failing sense of smell. The Sunday school teacher’s ability to taste was also going. A sample of Betsy’s famous chili recipe at the last potluck made that clear.

“You better get back out there. You’ll never believe who just pulled in the driveway.”

58

MARGE

Saturday 4:10 PM

Gazing outside, Marge wondered how much longer the sheets of rain would fall. The shower drummed against the glass, adding to her melancholy. A single window looked out her room. It wasn’t a surprise it didn’t open. Not that she would be tempted to jump. Somewhere on the fifth floor of an institution, it was the other residents the nurses and orderlies worried about. Sometimes a blank face would wander through her doorway, only to be chased out again. It didn’t take much to set the crazies off. She could hear their screams
drifting down the hallway – especially when the med cart made rounds.

It was the sterility of the place that made Marge cold. Simple white walls and vinyl furnishings were meant to be hassle free. She was given a bed with starched sheets and a single pillow that doubled for a brick. Her room matched all of the others on the floor. The place was uniform – even she blended in to the background. Clothing was simple. She could wear her hospital gown that gave her absolutely no shape, or the elastic pants that were meant to be one size fits all and a t-shirt. No shoes, just socks, even her bra was taken away.

Marge had been in the hospital a week. At least that was what Melba told her when the dark skinned woman came to clean her room. Always mopping and emptying the trash, the short lady was one of the few faces Marge had grown accustomed to seeing. It may have been a month for all Marge could recall. Days and nights rushed together, leaving a cloud of images but no reference to time. Most days were spent sleeping. Maybe it was stress, maybe it was one of the horse sized pills they insisted she swallow, but grogginess was a constant companion.

If there was one absolute, it was the constant cold sweats and loss of appetite. Never had she felt so sick. Even the smell of the pathetic food tray with rubber eggs and soggy
toast would have her vomiting in the sink. Despite her repulsion, the staff insisted on offering her meals anyway.  Her body was going through withdrawal. She didn’t need the doctors to tell her that. Fever, headache, puking up her guts – she had experienced it before. It was the shakes that made her give up in the past, but this time she was being forced.

Terry Richardson, a longtime friend of Williston’s, had stopped by at one point. Marge had been to the lawyer’s house years ago for a cookout, back when she and Will were still married and Terry’s wife, Beth, had just given birth to their first baby. A short man, barely five and a half feet, Marge could recall him staring at her lounging by his pool. Despite his apparent happy marriage, his eyes were glued to every move she made. The memory of making the man sweat a little more in the July heat was the only reason she agreed to speak to him when the nurses had announced she had a visitor.

Although Terry treated her like she was a stranger instead of someone he shared ribs and corn on the cob with, the lawyer said her ex-husband paid the retainer fee for his services and that as long as Marge didn’t object, he would defend her in court. But, legal stuff wouldn’t take place until after she dried out. Marge needed to be evaluated as to whether or not she was competent to stand trial. She was still
perplexed as to what they thought she had done. Each time she asked, he mentioned terms like psychotic break and manslaughter, but Marge didn’t know what he was saying. Terry kept blathering on and on about her rights and the importance of getting better. After a while, she zoned out and thought about her apartment. The idea of going back there with Brian’s blood on the floor made her sick.

Although she recalled trying to clean up the mess, the details were hazy. They had been having a good time and were talking about their marriage. Brian had picked a day and was asking her where she thought she might like to go on their honeymoon when he got hurt.

Did he cut himself with a knife, or was it something else?

Paramedics put Brian on a stretcher. Her lover had managed to drink himself into quite a stupor and passed out cold. The cops were screaming and refused to listen to a single word she said. Having had a little too much to drink, she got violent, even landing a solid punch into one of the jerk’s faces. From the look of her knuckles, it must have been a good one. The big douchebag wrestled her to the floor and cuffed her. She remembered that. They stuffed her in an ambulance and brought her to the emergency room. Afterwards, her thoughts were fuzzy. Only slight images of
white coats holding her down while nurses stuck her with IVs remained.

Why Brian hadn’t come to visit was beginning to trouble her. Surely he was no longer hung-over. His absence was annoying. Were they to switch places and he was in the hospital, Marge would have sent flowers and a card. Maybe even sneak in for a romantic rendezvous. Wear a trench coat with nothing underneath while claiming to the front desk she was a visitor from church. If she had that much imagination, surely her lover could think of a good surprise. 

It’s probably that damn wife of his again. Angela’s always trying to keep us apart.

Katie hadn’t come to visit either. Marge figured she was still upset about their argument. The details on that were a bit fuzzy as well. All she could remember was that Katie had colored her hair and blamed Marge for how bad it came out. The girl was like any teen, easily agitated and sensitive. Marge must have said something that set her daughter off, because Katie took her by surprise and smacked her across the face. The force of the blow caused Marge to stumble backwards and she thumped her head on the wall.

She’s lucky I didn’t hit her back. I would never dream of hitting one of my parents.

Turning away from the window, Marge strolled back to her bed. The constant scrape in the base of her skull was wearing her down. It was like
a pair of
Nanna’s
knitting needles were
chipping at her brain. Whenever she tried concentrating on Brian or Katie, the sensation made it impossible to focus. If she kept pushing it, her body would get all jumpy before breaking out in a pervasive sweat. More than once she soaked right through her clothing. 

Twisting to the door, Marge watched as one of the orderlies entered. Although she couldn’t recall his name, the attractive black man had been in a few times. With clear brown eyes the color of coffee and a head full of sable curls, there was a familiarity about him Marge found comforting. She liked the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.