Chapter 1 : Dead and Dying

Ash's POV "Where there are wolves, there's war." "And that was General James T. Larson's closing line of his, now infamous, 1942 North Egyptian Declara—" I turned the TV's knob until the volume dialed down all the way to zero, making sure I couldn't hear the dulcet tones of News Five's very own Walter Chekov spewing more sugar-coated lies to the masses. "Ashford," Ma's voice wobbled the way it did every year at this time. Like she was a hairpin away from hysterics. It made my back itch with the tension of it all. "Can you help me set the table?" "Sure thing! Just give me one sec, Ma," I hollered back, toeing the line between barely voiced petulance and canned enthusiasm. I was a teenager, sue me. I twisted the channel knob counter-clockwise, searching for a station that wasn't hell-bent on trying to relive the Glory Days in full crisp grayscale. No such luck, and it was too early in the evening for New Year's Rocketeers Eve to be on. I hummed, switching the station to channel three where they were playing repeats of High Noon with Desmond Peters as famed outlaw Iron Fang. Ma thought he was dreamy, but I always thought his chin looked like an ass. Satisfied that we wouldn't be subjected to more sadness than was strictly necessary, I got up from my place in front of the TV and made my way around the sofa and into our barely used dining room. I pulled the sea foam blue placemats out from the nearby credenza and placed them at their appropriate places at the table: me and Ma across from each other, and Dad at the head. Napkins, plates, and cutlery came next, but I hesitated when it came to Dad's spot. It's not like he was going to show up any time soon… "Everything okay in there, honey?" I smelled when the oven opened more than heard it. Pot roast and tatters—Ma really outdid herself this year. In the end, I set Dad's spot up anyway. I figured that even though he wouldn't show, it was the thought that counted, that would make Ma happy. At least, I hoped… Cups went their round—the good wine glasses for the champagne I was allowed the one cup off—and I sat down just in time for Ma to come in with the roast. She was huffing and puffing to cool it faster, a bit of chestnut hair falling out of her manicured bouffant. The roast was a beaut, and Ma placed the dish near the center, just shy of the white poppies she placed as this year's centerpiece. She claimed that the flowers symbolized hope, peace, and healing—everything we'd been missing as of late and wanted to usher into the new year. Or so Linda Springer from HR had told her. I had my doubts, if only because the flowers seemed to be popular on the graves of every family who'd lost a member in the war. But, Ma didn't need to know that. "Thank you, Ash. For setting the table and well…" Ma removed her yellow oven mitts so she could ruffle my hair affectionately. Any other day, I'd object—and harshly too—but for today…For today only, I leaned into the touch, letting the simple act ground her. Ma smiled, and it was laden with tears I could see welling in her cocoa-brown eyes, too prideful to let them fall. "You're just such a good kid, Ash. Your father would be so proud." As if on cue, we both looked at the empty space my father should have occupied. Had it really been ten years? It was hard to imagine, it still felt like yesterday he was showing me the best method to fold a paper airplane. Teasing the creases into a thick piece of cardstock he always seemed to have in his office for work. If I really focused on the memory, pushed past the child-like wonder, and skipped past the warmth of the imagined sun on my face, I could begin to see the cracks though. The ravages of time. See how my father's face took on the sepia-toned hues of his war picture. Heard the distinct lack of accent in his voice, and how it became the standardized English written in the cursive of his letters. Letters I still had stuffed in the back of my sock drawer, too sentimental to throw out but too painful to leave in the open. My mind went numb. "Ashford?" Ma's face swam back into my vision, chasing away the specter of a father that seemed more myth than reality. I grinned, trying to put her at ease, and knowing I'd failed when she slipped her thin hand in mine. "You all right there, hon? You look like you've seen a ghost." "I'm good, honest. Just hungry." The lie on my tongue tasted about as bitter as the greens she had in a bowl next to the potatoes. I squeezed her thin hand before pulling away. I sat down in my seat, a little harder than normal, my legs giving out about halfway. Get it together nimrod, no need to worry her any more than she already does! "Wow Ma, this looks great." There was a false cheer in my voice coupled with a grin that hurt my cheeks. "You really outdid yourself!" "Thanks! Bumped into Shirley from Steward's last week, and she gave me a recipe from that Homeowner's Cookbook she won from last month's sweepstakes," Ma explained as she served us both. "Jim can't handle red meats anymore. So, she figured, why let it all go to waste when she can share the wealth, right?" "That was awful nice of her," I shrugged, struggling to recall the cashier at the grocery store, spearing a piece of baby carrot as I did. Ma slapped my hand back, looking cross, but at least she didn't look like she was going to cry. It was an improvement, even if it was at my expense. "Ashford Theodore Wells, I know I raised you better than that! You know you wait until we've said grace!" Properly cowed, I bowed my head, fingers together with the pinkies up. "Dear Most Holy Goddess of the Moon," Ma began without much preamble. "We gather here today—" *** "Ash, honey, can you get the cake?" Ma's glass clumsily knocked into her plate, and I snatched it before wine could spill onto her nicest tablecloth. She patted my arm with more force than I think she realized, her cheeks flushed red with alcohol. "It should be on the kitchen countertop, under the peach dome. Not the coral dome, that's Mrs. Sanderson's cookies for the bake sale!" "They're all the same pink." I lifted one of her many domes and came face to face with Grandma Esther's leftover fruitcake. I discretely moved the offender into the trash and hoped the next one wasn't full of man-made horrors. Huh, casserole. "What happened to that labeler I got you for Yule?" "I let Cindy H borrow it!" "Isn't Cindy H the one who borrowed your copy of 'Murder, He Spoke' and didn't give it back?" There! Ah ha! Mission accomplished. Now I just had to— I jerked the cake off the counter and accidentally knocked over the stack of recipe books to the right. Papers scattered to the checkered linoleum and in my haste to pick them up, I noticed something peculiar stuffed between the annotated dog-eared pages of fudge brownies and fried catfish. Something that was already three months overdue. "Ash, honey?" Ma's voice was all hushed drunken concern. I could almost see her dark brows drawn up nearly to her hairline. "You all right in there? You didn't get lost did you?" I couldn't find my voice, not until I'd thrown the medical bill down onto the dining room table between us. "What is this?" my voice was quiet, thinned out in a rage I was trying to keep under wraps. "How could you not tell me?" Ma looked confused, her eyes having trouble focusing on the neat block print of the numbers, but she recognized the red stamp that demanded attention above all else. She traced the raised edges of the stamp before me, dead in the eye, searching for something in my gaze that said it was all right. She didn't get that. My hands curled into fists, knuckles white from bottling myself and curbing the venom on my tongue. We'd been through this before. She promised. Her eyes hardened. "How did you—" "Hit the magazines," my throat felt tight and chalky; like I hadn't had a drink in years. "I could get a job—" "No." It wasn't up for discussion. I, of course, found that to be bullshit. I pressed on, "Listen, Clark's pays seventy-five cents an hour bagging groceries part-time. If I do that and do that tutoring gig I mentioned a while back—" "The answer is no, Ash." We were level in height, my growth spurts never having arrived, so it was easy to be intimated by the flash of her eye. Wolf's gold overshadowed brown for a moment, but I soldiered on. When you're the small fry in every class, you learn how to stand up to the best of them. Ma paused deliberately as she tried to puzzle out what to say next. "I'll figure something out. I've been meaning to ask Rebecca about more overtime—" I slammed my hands on the table, loud and heavy like my pulse rushing in my ears. "So it's okay if you work yourself to death, but I can't?" I nearly knocked over the centerpiece with the sweep of my disgusted hands. So much for ushering serenity into the new year. "So what? Better than to have two dead parents than a live one?" "Better than a dead son!" I froze, taken aback. "You've been in the hospital five times this year, Ash! Five! Did you ever think that maybe after your father, I'd never want to see a grave again? MUCH LESS YOURS!" Her snarls ended in a mournful howl, the damn finally bursting as her tears ran over, shoulders shaking. The ozone press of her change filled the room, but Ma hadn't fully shifted yet. Just claws putting holes in the tablecloth, digging deep into the walnut finish of a table Dad had carved himself. That's what brought her back. That, and my neutered silence. Because, what could I say when she was right? At the rate I was going, I probably wouldn't even make it to graduation and where did that leave her? I hated that more than anything. "Ash, I'm—" "I'm headed out." I left the room, grabbing my peacoat off the sofa, something she always harped on me for. "For the fireworks. Don't wait up." "Ash—" And I took off down the road like a bullet, outrunning her and the press of death all around me.