Don't Blame the Music (16 page)

I thought of my stuffed animals, their little throats slit. My sweater, dripping yarn. My clothing, mutilated.

What would it be like on Ash's twenty-sixth birthday? Would we visit her in an institution? Would we be in court, trying to keep her locked up where she couldn't hurt us? Or would we be right here, playing the same tune with the same group?

My father eased Ashley into her chair. She didn't struggle. She had run out of energy. She sat, her colored feathers torn and drooping, and the silver and gold chains in her hair matted and broken.

She was a wreck. Like a ship dashed on the rocks.

There is only one good thing, I thought.

She came home.

When everything in the world failed for her, she knew she could come home.

My father tilted back in his chair, telephoning a number he had written on a slip of paper in his wallet. From the half of the conversation we could hear, he was talking to the hospitals about admitting Ashley.

What if I do something bad? I thought.

Or what if life does something bad to me?

Home has to be here.

“Happily ever after,” I said out loud.

They looked at me.

“It's my favorite sentence,” I said, embarrassed. “I wanted to use it for us. I want things to be happily ever after.”

My father cupped his hand over the phone. “Forgiving is easy,” he said. “But we have to survive. It's time to cut our losses.”

“What am I, a stock investment?” said Ashley.

I like peaceable things. Gentle things. Smooth unruffled things. If Ashley stayed she would defile my bedroom again. But if we threw her out …

My father hung up. “Well,” he said tiredly, “you get your wish.”

He was speaking to all of us.

“Valley has no openings. And Cherry Hill takes only voluntary admissions.” He stared hopelessly at his older daughter. “Ashley, would you consider signing yourself in for treatment at Cherry Hill?”

“My sister and mother are willing to give me another chance,” said Ashley. “How come you aren't?”

“I guess eight hundred seemed like enough,” he said sarcastically.

I didn't like him.

For the first time in my life I looked at my own father and I didn't like him. You can be understanding to every kid who ever played on your football teams, I thought, but you won't try to understand Ashley. She's right. You never did try.

On the other hand, what good was it to understand? The hooked rug was just as ruined, the bedroom just as defiled, and the sweater just as mutilated, whether I understood or not. And he was right, too. Eight hundred times was enough chances.

How do people ever see things clearly? I thought. There are too many angles to everything.

“You're not dating that lightweight preppy idiot, are you, Susan?” said my sister.

“No, Ashley. And thanks to you, I guess I never will be.”

Ashley smiled. “My good deed for the day.”

School.

Everyone was so excited by my yearbook idea they could hardly see straight. People I hardly knew ran up yelling, “Susan! Great idea!” People in marching band told me their favorite march and people in concert choir wanted to know if they could record
two
songs. A jazz group reminded me that they existed and asked not to be left out. I referred them all to Whit.

Emily told me she knew already that there would be enough sales to make up for the added cost of the record because people were so thrilled.

Anthony never looked my way. He kept his face averted and conversed deeply with other people, especially Shepherd. If I'd had energy to spare for grief, I would have grieved. Anthony, of all people. If Whit had had to deal with Ashley, he'd have grabbed her like my father did and held her down until she surrendered. But Anthony—

He had no way to know how to deal with it.

No more than my mother did.

It was a case where practice meant nothing. You were either able to handle Ashley or you weren't.

We weren't.

In trig, Miss Margolis said, “We're taking a quiz, Susan. Remember? That's why there's a pencil in your hand.”

“Oh, is
that
why she's hanging on to the pencil?” said Jeffrey. “And here I thought she was going to perform an unnatural act with it.”

“That's her sister you're thinking of,” said Karen Campagne. “Susan here is Miss Conventional.”

“I always thought the name Ashley Hall sounded like a boarding school,” said Jeffrey. “You know. The kind where girls have a nine-o'clock curfew and go to chapel on Sundays and all the graduates are just so, so socially acceptable.”

“Can't be Ashley. She was
never
socially acceptable.”

They were trying to be funny. They thought it was just easygoing kidding. They figured a status type like me (yearbook originator and all that) would have a good laugh.

What would they do if I began screaming? Pounding my fists and hurling my books like Ashley?

“I can always tell when you're having fun,” Whit murmured in my ear. “Your knuckles turn white.”

His long legs stretched past his own desk to flank mine. All boys have huge feet. I sometimes wonder how they can hoist all that without tripping. I turned to smile at him. He had had a haircut. How handsome he was! Positively preppy. Oh, Whit! I thought. Maybe Ash did do a good deed, getting rid of Anthony for me.

My crush on Whit was so tangible I could have held it in my hands.

But it was not Whit who caught me after class. It was Shepherd. Whit wouldn't hang around when Sheppie was there, so any chance to talk to him vanished. “Susan,” she said, taking a deep breath, “my parents recommended calling the newspaper and getting some publicity on the yearbook.”

“Yeah?”

“With the focus on your record.”

I had truly stolen her thunder. I had to admire her, though. She was admitting that it was my project that deserved the publicity.

“The reporter can talk to us tomorrow fifth period or the following day after school. Can you manage one of those times?” She had to work to put the smile on her face.

Planning as far as tomorrow fifth period was beyond me. After all, I still had to go home tonight, and do normal things like homework while Ash cut the buttons off my shirts.

Cindy materialized at my elbow. I had forgotten I had a best friend. Less than two weeks of Ash and all things near and dear had splintered away. “Can she talk to you later, Shepherd?” said Cindy. “Things are a little unsettled right now.”

“Fine,” she answered, looking confused.

“Great,” said Cindy, leading me away.

“We're going to be late to class,” I objected. My lips felt numb, as if I'd gotten novocaine.

“No, because we're going to cut class. Come on.”

We went to the student center. I rarely cut anything. But it seemed reasonable enough to sit with Cindy in a dark quiet corner behind one of the pillars instead of going to class.

“Your mother called my mother this morning after breakfast,” said Cindy. “When your mom realized you spent the night on the couch because you were afraid to share a bedroom with Ashley, she knew she had to take action. They haven't found an institution for her yet, but you're going to come live with us until they do. You're going to have Elaine's room.”

Cindy's family.

Warm, ordinary, loving. Mrs. Wethers adores making hot drinks for guests. Her sense of hospitality is completely dependent on hot drinks. She never would offer you ginger ale or Coke. It's always, “Susan! It's been ages! Hot chocolate? Coffee? Soup? Hot apple punch?” She watches while you drink, and it satisfies
her
more than you—she's solved your chill, your thirst, and your troubles.

“Okay,” I said.

We sat silently for a long time. I couldn't get my thoughts straight enough to talk, so I didn't try.

“You know, it really hurt my feelings that you weren't coming to me to tell me everything,” said Cindy. “I mean, what are best friends for? But I had a long talk with my parents last night.”

There had been an awful lot of girls having long talks with their parents last night. Ashley, me, Shepherd, Cindy.

“And they said when things are really awful people close in on themselves like turtles. Keeping to yourself is protective.”

“Oh, Cindy, there just didn't seem to be time to call you. All I could do was catch my breath and tread water.”

“You don't have to tread water anymore. You'll be living with us.”

I closed my eyes in relief. Just thinking of Mrs. Wethers and her fussy comforting attentions was a safety zone. Away from the place where teddy bears were stabbed and friends attacked and heirlooms desecrated. Cindy's house. A place to be cherished.

“You're such nice people,” said Cindy. “I can't understand what's happening to you. You don't deserve it.”

“I don't suppose deserving comes into it,” I said. “There doesn't seem to be a system where you add up the good deeds and the bad deeds and get a life to fit.”

“It's not fair!” said Cindy hotly.

“Speak to God about it, will you?”

We giggled. Mine was real. What a relief to be really laughing. To know that today after school I could go home to a real home. Passing bell rang and I got to my feet eagerly. Cindy had restored me.

She bounced off to her class and I headed for mine.

But cutting one class had changed me.

Given me ideas.

I thought, Why even bother with school today? I can't concentrate anyhow. I'll go home and pack and head for the Wethers' house and relax.

I telephoned, but nobody answered. My father would be at work. My mother? Ashley? Where would they be, together? I shrugged, went to the pay phone and called a taxi. I prefer to save my money for clothes, but this was an exceptional circumstance.

The taxi silently headed for Iron Mine Road. It was a beautiful day. Deep blue sky, one slim thread of white cloud, the maples turning color and the wind whipping through grass that needed one more mowing.

I paid the driver.

I got out, and the garage doors were open, which was wrong, and I wanted to tell the driver to wait, but he was already leaving. Iron Mine Road was far from any other fare. Our garage was once two sheds, leaning up against the kitchen. Two large swinging doors hang on black iron strap hinges. We never leave them open. The wind smacks them against the building with enough force to snap them off.

But they were open.

The pickup and the car were gone.

I stood by the lilacs. How stringy and ugly they looked with no leaves. The road was quiet. Nobody seemed to be home next door, either. I was alone on Iron Mine Road.

Telling myself not to be fanciful, I walked in by the garage, thinking I'd shut them from the inside and go into the house through the shed door, where the dryer and washing machine were. I pulled the doors closed. They creaked heavily, unwillingly, against the strong breeze. I walked into the shed.

Ashley was crouching on top of the dryer.

I gasped.

“What are you doing here?” she said irritably.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

She was reaching for the deep high storage ledge. Pulling down a suitcase. The best one, the only leather one.

“You cutting class?” said Ashley. “That doesn't sound like you.” She threw the suitcase to the floor. I jumped out of the way.

I felt out of kilter.
I
was the one who had come home to pack. Why was Ashley getting the suitcase? “Are you going somewhere?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I digested this. “Where?”

“Don't know.”

She began packing the suitcase. But not with clothing. With the silver teaspoons, the brass candlesticks, the pewter mugs, the collection of silver-handled mirrors. I wondered how much money she could get for all that. I wondered about the open garage doors. Was she expecting someone to come for her? Someone like Bob? Fear prickled my palms and my thighs. “Don't take that,” I said. “Don't steal it, Ashley. Please don't do that.”

“I need the money. You think Warren is going to give it to me? He gives you anything you want, because you're a malleable sweet darling little suburbanite. But me—nothing. All he wants is to lock me up.”

“But he wouldn't want to lock you up if you didn't do things like this,” I objected. “Ashley, don't steal this stuff. Please? Think about what you're doing.”

Did I think we were going to open up a can of Campbell's soup together and sort out our problems over Chicken Noodle? Did I think she would clasp my hand in gratitude for showing her the light?

“Listen, Saint Susan. I do what I need to do. Don't get in my way.”

Don't get in her way.

So what was I supposed to do? Go meekly away and pack my clothes while she packed my mother's treasures? Call the police? Dial 911, tell them last house on the right on Iron Mine Road, robbery in progress?

She was putting my radio into her suitcase. My good radio. My aunt and uncle bought it for me. The perfect size, the perfect weight. Terrific reception, good sound. “Give me my radio!” I yelled at her.

“Forget it.”

I wrenched the radio out of her hands.

I walked into the kitchen, set it on the table, walked back out to the shed and retrieved an armload of silver. “You're not taking our things!” I yelled at her.

She stood there, amazed. I had never been anything but passive before. It shocked her. It was rare for Ash to be the one shocked. I rather liked it. I walked back out for another load. Ashley was holding the gasoline can we use to fill the lawnmower.

“See this?” she said, flicking the tiny red cap off the opening.

I froze.

She pulled out a pack of matches from her sweatshirt pocket. “See this?” she said, in a voice as soft as suffocation.

“Ash?” I whispered.

“Well named. You know what makes ashes? Fire does, Saint Susan. Fire.”