Little Lamb Lost (15 page)

Al had been stopped by the funeral
director, who was shaking his hand and expressing his condolences. I moved on
to my next question.

“Was Al home the night Michael died?”

“I dunno. I was at work.”

“Does he usually stay home while you’re
at work?”

“Sometimes he goes out to the dog track.
Or to see his guy.”

“His guy?”

“The guy he bets with.”

Ah, his bookie. “Does he owe him a lot
of money?” I already knew the answer, from Ashley. She’d told me a long time
ago that Al had a problem and that he’d lost a lot.

“Not as much as before. He only owes him
about thirteen now.”

“Thirteen thousand?”

“Yeah. Really, he’s doing better.”

So who knows where Al was the night
Michael died. For some reason, that made me nervous. And what about this
bookie? Was he the type to threaten someone’s family? Like in the movies? It
sounded outrageous. Didn’t it?

Other people were starting to arrive.
Nona walked in with Dazzle, both in pretty church clothes. All of Michael’s
former foster parents showed up, and I spent time chatting with them, one eye
on the door. Nona greeted several women I didn’t know. I assumed they were
women Ashley had gone to treatment with, or who were in her aftercare group.
Finally, the elusive Jimmy walked in, soon followed by Ashley.

They’d allowed her to change out of her
orange striped jumpsuit into a plain gray dress with a white collar. Her hands
were cuffed in the front, her ankles chained together. Her gaze strayed to the
picture of Michael but didn’t stay there. Moments after she entered, the
director announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are ready to begin the service.
Please follow me to the chapel.”

We filed into the church-like room. I
sat in the back row where I had a pretty good view of all the mourners. Al and
Dee sat in the front row on Ashley’s right. Jimmy was on her left, looking
awkward in a white dress shirt that had seen better days. The rest were
scattered here and there throughout the chapel. No sign of Flash. A lanky
gray-haired black man in a clerical collar approached the podium.

“Good morning. Thank you all for coming
today. Let’s begin with a prayer.” All heads bowed. Reverend Croft offered a
short prayer for Michael, then thanked God for the support of everyone present
and prayed for help for the family during this difficult time. His voice was a
sing-song down comforter.

He finished with “Amen,” and walked to
the small casket in front of the lectern. It was draped with Michael’s blanket,
the fleece one printed with lambs that Ashley had taken with her when we left
the apartment last week. The reverend stroked the soft cloth.

“When I first met Ashley last week and
learned about Michael — when she showed me this blanket and talked about his
favorite toys — I was reminded of the eighteenth-century poem by William Blake,
‘The Lamb,” from
Songs
of Innocence
.” He went back to the podium and read it, ending with
“Little lamb, God bless thee!

“The apostle John called Jesus the Lamb
of God. Lambs are often associated with sacrifice, just as God sacrificed his
only son so that the sins of the world would be forgiven. Because of God’s
sacrifice, we shall all be welcomed into the kingdom of Heaven, no matter what
our age, or sins.”

He continued preaching as my mind
wandered. I studied the people in the chapel to avoid looking at the small box
that held Michael’s body. Ashley’s head was bent. Jimmy was close to her, his
arm resting on the back of the pew and his hand patting her shoulder gently
from time to time. Nona and Dazzle rocked and nodded to the cadence of the
Reverend’s voice, occasionally adding “Amen” to something he said. Dazzle was
crying, streams of tears fell down her cheeks and were caught in a tissue. Al’s
gaze wandered the room, Dee sat rigid.

Reverend Croft concluded his eulogy and
nodded once to a staff member in the wings, who turned to a control panel and
hit a button. An instrumental recording of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven”
played through the barely hidden speakers in the ceiling. I felt emotion rising
inside me and stuffed it down, quick. It was harder this time. Every time.

Sacrifice. The Reverend had nailed that
one right on the head. That’s what Michael’s death was about. Ashley had
sacrificed her son. And her freedom. For someone or something. What was I
willing to sacrifice to find the truth? My career? Maybe so. To prove I wasn’t
wrong about Ashley. To protect the belief that my instincts were right. And to
assuage my own guilt that I could have done something more.

The song ended, and Reverend Croft
concluded the service with the Twenty-third Psalm and another prayer for
Michael. He invited us all to accompany the family to the cemetery for the
interment. As everyone filed out, I hurried to my car. In the warm vehicle I
watched the funeral staff load the tiny coffin into a hearse and drive out. The
sheriff’s deputies placed Ashley in the backseat of their car and followed.
Jimmy went to a battered black pickup with a silver truck box in the back. Dee
and Al were in her Chevy, and Nona and Dazzle had come together in Nona’s Kia.
I turned my headlights on and joined the caravan, led by a Birmingham police
officer on a motorcycle, blue lights flashing.

We paraded to Elmwood Cemetery, through
the massive iron gates, and onto a narrow paved road that wound through acres
and acres of headstones. At the southwest corner of the graveyard, another
green canopy awaited us, a few chairs underneath on an outdoor carpet. The
deputies walked Ashley to the front row, where she sat between her mother and
Jimmy. She clutched the blue lamb blanket as the little casket hovered over the
grave. Others filled in the rest of the seats, and the deputies and I stood
respectfully in the back.

The burial was brief. Trees around us
swayed as the reverend struggled to be heard over the rushing breezes. He
prayed again, then quoted Genesis. “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt
return.” The casket was lowered, and Ashley sprinkled a bit of earth on it. In
my mind, I said good-bye and apologized to Michael. Reverend Croft thanked us
again for coming, and it was over.

The mourners hugged Ashley, one by one,
and walked to their cars. The reverend left. Dee and Al left. The deputies gave
Ashley some space, standing twenty feet or so away. Jimmy went back to his
truck, leaned against the door and waited. I walked toward him, looking back
over my shoulder to see Ashley, alone, standing over the open grave and talking
to her dead son.

I approached Jimmy, who was watching
Ashley with his hands in his pockets. His hair and beard were whipping in the
wind. “Mr. Shelton?”

“That’s right.”

I held out my hand and he shook it. “I’m
Claire Conover. I was Michael’s social worker.”

He nodded. “Ashley told me about you.”

“I saw you at the jail that day. You’re
Ashley’s boyfriend.”

“You could say that.”

“Mr. Shelton —”

“Jimmy.” His voice was deep.

“Jimmy, you know how Michael died?”

“Yes.”

“I’m having a hard time believing that
Ashley was using drugs again. Or that she would have them where Michael could
get into them. Am I wrong? She seemed to be doing so well.”

Both of us watched Ashley, still
speaking in earnest to the wooden box in the grave.

“Leave it alone,” he said.

“Leave what alone?”

“Ashley. Everything.” His dark brown
eyes focused on mine as he leaned close. “You’ll get hurt. Understand?”

“But, um . . .” As I stammered, shaken
by the threat, he edged around me and went to Ashley. When he placed a hand on
her shoulder, she turned and his arms enfolded her. It looked as though she
were crying.

The two deputies were still some
distance away. As Jimmy and Ashley whispered together, I made my way over to
the officers and pulled out my ID. “I’m Ashley’s social worker. Can I have five
minutes before you take her back?”

Cops and social workers are cousins.
We’re all part of the same family of folks whose job it is to care for the
suffering and the endangered. I thought the ID would gain their support, and I
was right. The younger of the two deferred to the older, and he nodded. “Five
minutes.” Ashley and Jimmy approached us, his hand gripping her elbow. He gave
her one last hug and kissed her forehead, shot me another warning look, then
went to his truck. The deputies walked to their marked car, chatting. The wind
drowned out what they were saying.

I focused on Ashley. “I’m so sorry about
everything. Do you need anything?”

Her head stayed down, eyes locked on the
perfectly manicured grass. “No, I’m just ready to get back to jail.”

“Ashley, what happened? Where’d the GHB
come from?”

Her head snapped up. “Why won’t you just
let it go? It’s over. Michael’s dead. I don’t even have to talk to you no
more.”

“I want to help you.”

“Why? What the hell difference does it
make?”

“It matters to me. A lot. I had faith in
you. So I was wrong?”

“Yeah. Okay? Yeah, you were wrong. I’m
exactly where I should be. My son’s dead and it’s all my fault.”

“So you put the G in the juice?”

“Just drop it. Please. You don’t know
what you’re getting into. These are dangerous people. They’ll kill me. They’ll
kill you.”

It took a second for that to sink in.
“You know who killed Michael?”

“I mean it. Drop it.”

“But — if you know who did it, who’s
responsible — they can reverse your conviction. You can get out of —”

“No! I’m where I need to be.”

“But if you didn’t put —”

“My whole fucked-up life caused Mikey’s
death. My bad decisions, my addiction. It’s God’s way of punishing me.”

“No —”

“Yes. And while I’m being punished, they
can’t get me. Stay out of it, Claire.”

One of the deputies walked over and took
Ashley’s arm. “Time’s up.”

“If you’ll just let me help —”
      

“No! It’s too late.”

“I’ll come visit you.”

She shrugged as the officer led her
away. Once again, they helped her into the backseat. The sound of ankle chains
tinkled over the wind.

I had zero business going anywhere but
back to DHS. Enough work was piled on my desk to keep me busy until the end of
the year. Instead, I flew down Sixth Avenue to the north part of downtown.
Found a place to park, fed the meter, and went into the Top of the Hill Grill.

The special today was roast beef, and
the smell of the rich brown gravy jolted my stomach, reminding me it was time
to eat. It was twelve after one and the lunch crowd was thinning out. Brandi
was taking an order at a table as I sat at the green counter. She finished and
came around to me. Noticing my dark suit, she asked, “Was it awful?”

“It was sad, yeah.”

“How’s Ashley?”

“Okay. Did you see her this weekend?”

“Yeah, I went up there Saturday. Brought
her some money for her commissary account. She looks terrible.”

“She say anything about Mikey?”

She shook her head. “All she said was
that she deserved to be in jail. I asked her what that meant and she said she
didn’t have no life on the outside so she might as well be in prison. I tried
to tell her that was just her grieving talking, but that’s all she’d say. It’s
good she’s in there, ’cause I’d be real worried about her killing herself if
she wasn’t.”

“Jimmy been back in here?”

“Nope. You want some lunch?”

“Sure, something to go. A BLT.” Brandi
wrote the order and slipped the sheet into the window. While we waited, she
cleared a few tables in between listening to my report on the funeral. My
sandwich appeared in the window in a white paper sack with the ticket taped to
it. Brandi set it in front of me, then pulled her keys out of her apron.

“You still want the key, right?”

“Sure. Did you tell Ashley I’d asked
about it?”

“No.”

I hadn’t asked Ashley, either, but I
knew what the answer would’ve been. I didn’t care. I picked up the small silver
key and my sandwich.

“Brandi, you ever been to a place called
Kaleidoscope? In Lakeview?”

“Sure. The dance place. Sometimes.”

“You ever go there with Ashley?”

“Two or three times.” Seeing the
surprised look on my face, she quickly added, “But Ashley didn’t drink or
nothing. I made sure. We just went for a girls’ night out, like. Just to go
dancing. She left Michael at the sitter’s. I’d never let her touch nothing to
drink.”

“Okay.”

“Why?”

I didn’t feel up to a long explanation.
“I was just wondering. It came up, that’s all.”

With a puzzled look, Brandi bid me
good-bye. I paid at the register and wolfed down the sandwich, hardly tasting
it, on my way to Avondale.