Stray Fears Read online

  STRAY FEARS

  A NOVEL

  GREGORY ASHE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Stray Fears

  Copyright © 2020 Gregory Ashe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: [email protected]

  Published by Hodgkin & Blount

  https://www.hodgkinandblount.com/

  [email protected]

  Published 2020

  Printed in the United States of America

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63621-007-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63621-006-3

  I

  There is a certain spirit that lives in marshy places—often along the edges of swamps. It is never seen during the day, only at night, and even then its heart is the only part visible. Its heart appears as a small ball of fire that may be seen moving about, a short distance above the surface of the water.

  - “Myths of the Louisiana Choctaw,” David I. Bushnell, Jr.

  ELIEN (1)

  The DuPage-St. Tammany Parish Support Group for Survivors with PTSD—DSTP-PTSD, as it was printed on every email, bulletin, and placard—didn’t have donuts. I guess somebody had thought that palindrome was cute. Or funny. That’s what we’re known for, us survivors with PTSD: our sense of humor. But not donuts. That was one of the reasons I kept coming. AA had donuts. NA had donuts. SAA had donuts. GA had donuts. And even though I didn’t exactly need to go to any of those meetings—at twenty-two years old, I didn’t gamble, all my scrips were legal, and I’d given up Chardonnay when I’d taken up Prozac. As for sex addiction, well, very funny, tell me another. Just knowing about the other support groups was risky. Donuts were a clear and present danger.

  I kept coming to DSTP-PTSD for a lot of reasons, I guess. No donuts, obvs. And I kept coming because it was one of those things you were supposed to do. I kept coming because I didn’t work, I didn’t have any hobbies, and I didn’t have any friends. I kept coming because I could only vacuum the living room or organize the pantry or launder dust ruffles so many times before I started thinking very seriously about wading out into the bayou to meet a hungry gator. But really, gun to my head, I kept coming because I knew Richard would leave me if I didn’t.

  I had a Walkman when I was twelve, and the thing I remember about the Walkman was I could put in my Alanis Morissette CD—Jagged Little Pill, not Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, thank you very much—and I could hit Repeat and listen to “All I Really Want” for as long as I wanted, as many times as I wanted. And then one time the Repeat button broke, and I listened to “All I Really Want” for six days straight before I swapped CDs. Coming to group was like that.

  Today, Leola was talking about her mom. Her mom had been a junkie—about half the people in the room had moms who were junkies—and her mom had run a dry-cleaning business. The junkie part wasn’t what Leola talked about, most of the time. The junkie part was whipped cream, I guess, in comparison. What Leola talked about was the times her mom was sober and mean and vicious. Wire hangers. Chemical burns. Those thin plastic bags wrapped around her face until she lost consciousness.

  The basement of Du Page First Methodist had a wall of long, narrow windows that let in the afternoon light. The walls were painted concrete, and the floor had those high-traffic carpet squares that you can replace easily. We met on Tuesdays, after the preschool let out. You could still smell animal crackers, soiled diapers, and rubber cement.

  The thing about hearing tragedy, week after week, is you can let it keep hurting you, let the razor blades slice you up every single time, or you can turn off inside. Even if it’s your own tragedy. Especially if it’s your own tragedy.

  When Leola finished, we all looked at Zahra. She had glided into middle age pretty comfortably, although her graying hair was in a severe bun, which made her long face look a little longer. She worked in the same practice as Richard; the support group was her personal project.

  “Elien, how about you?”

  “Not much to report,” I said.

  “How did things go last Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

  “It was your mom’s birthday, bitch,” Tamika said. “Don’t pretend.”

  “Tamika,” Zahra said. “That’s not the way we talk to each other in here.”

  “I guess it wasn’t perfect,” I said.

  Zahra waited. They all waited: Dave, Leola, Kenny, Ray, Mason, Willie, Tamika, Stephanie, Danielle. The whole circle. Waiting.

  “I kind of had a meltdown that morning,” I said, shrugging.

  Willie, on my right, nodded and lowered his head. Kenny ran a hand through his locs and said, “You got this, man.”

  “I mean, it wasn’t really any different than my other meltdowns,” I said. “I was folding some of Richard’s clothes. I . . . I guess he didn’t shut the shower off all the way. I don’t know. Maybe it was me. Maybe I didn’t, but I don’t think I took a shower that morning. I heard the water. Just that, you know, drip. But it’s kind of like plonk, the sound, because there’s a little bit of water around the drain.” I shrugged again and smiled. “I, uh, didn’t, you know, punish myself, so that’s a big deal, right?”

  “Way to go, man,” Kenny said. “Fucking way to go.”

  “I did, however, spend a couple of hours screaming in the closet. So, yeah, not a total win.”

  Dave burst out laughing. Shrill, escalating laughter. It ended as abruptly as it had started, with Dave staring at the ground, flexing his gloved hands, his lips twitching as though he might start laughing again. The rest of us traded the same looks we always did.

  “Oh, Elien,” Stephanie said, wiping tears from her dark eyes. “I feel like this is my fault. I can’t believe I asked you last week about her birthday. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, you probably would have been fine.”

  “Bitch,” Tamika said, “who the fuck do you think you are? God? One question isn’t going to do anything.”

  “All right, Tamika,” Zahra said.

  “I didn’t mean—” Stephanie’s face was crumbling. “Oh, I know you’re right.”

  “Don’t you dare fucking cry,” Tamika said. “You can’t go one day without crying?”

  “Tamika,” Zahra said.

  “You know,” I said, “I’m really glad you asked me, Stephanie. Last week, I mean. Nobody knows what to say. Nobody knows what to ask. I’d rather have somebody ask me about it than tiptoe around and pretend nothing’s happening.”

  Stephanie sniffed a few times, wiped her eyes, and tried to smile.

  For a moment, Zahra worried at a bandage on her hand, and she looked like she might press the issue with Tamika. But all Zahra said was, “Kenny, what about you?” And we moved on.

  I’d finished my obligatory performance; it was very important, in times like these, to keep the cover story straight, to make sure the details were consistent. Lying in group wasn’t encouraged, but if I’d told them the truth, they would have kicked me out. I was running through what I’d said, making sure I hadn’t messed up. I think that’s why it took me a moment to realize Mason was staring at me. Not just staring. Glaring.

  Mason was relatively new to the group. A couple of months before, he’d
been shot by a kid he was trying to arrest. Mason had almost died. The kid, with the help of mom and dad’s money, had pled down to a lesser charge, and was apparently serving jail time in a cushy juvenile facility. Mason talked about that part a lot; that was his word, cushy. Like they were playing badminton all day. He was a cute guy: wavy blond hair, a great nose—a nose can be a make it or break it feature on a guy—and a little gap between his front teeth. Frankly, that little gap was adorable. He had talked about a girlfriend, Mary Ann, a few times, but that didn’t keep me from looking.

  Right then, though, Mason’s very nice nose was wrinkled in a scowl, and he was looking at me like I’d had the bad taste to root for the Falcons during a Saints game. I met his gaze, held it, and turned my hands palm up. Mason didn’t react. He just stared until I finally looked away.

  I missed most of the rest of group. I kept glancing over at Mason and finding him still staring at me, and then I’d miss what Ray or Danielle was saying. I’d drag my attention back to the meeting, and thirty seconds later I’d be thinking about Mason, about his very cute nose scrunched up, and what I’d done to piss him off. And then, no matter how hard I tried, I’d look, and he’d be staring right back at me, like he’d been waiting.

  When the meeting ended, I put away my chair and moved over to the refreshments, where coffee and iced tea were waiting, along with a selection of store-bought cookies. I skipped the cookies and the iced tea—one glass had about a million calories, the way Danielle always sweetened it—and poured myself a cup of coffee, black. I tasted it, the chicory and the dark roast, and then I found a stirrer and stood there, swishing it through the coffee, glancing up now and then.

  Mason was still there, hands in his pockets, standing by the door. Watching me.

  “Elien,” Zahra said in her quiet voice as she joined me.

  Coffee slopped onto my fingers, and I swore under my breath and shook off the drops.

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “Are you doing ok today?”

  My eyes drifted over Zahra’s shoulders to Mason. “Yeah,” I said. “Great.”

  “You seemed distracted in our meeting.”

  “Processing,” I said. Processing was a magic word with people like Zahra and Richard.

  “Elien.”

  Her tone brought my attention back to her face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Elien, you know that people who are experiencing post-traumatic stress—”

  “Oh boy,” I said.

  “—often have the mistaken belief that they deserve to suffer. They hold on to the past because they think it gives meaning to the suffering they witnessed.”

  “I believe I’ve heard that a time or two.”

  Mason was still standing there; it was hard to tell from a distance, but I was pretty sure his hands were balled up into fists in his pockets.

  “And you know that getting better depends on the individual. Nobody can do this for you.”

  “I believe I’ve heard that a time or two as well.” Then, because I couldn’t help myself, “Maybe you should be reminding Mason of this stuff.”

  Zahra’s dark eyes caught mine. “Mason didn’t lie to everyone today.”

  Slowly, I drew out the coffee stirrer and flicked droplets into the trash.

  “You’re not going to say anything?”

  I shrugged.

  “So, we’re both going to pretend I didn’t run into you and Richard at Café Bartolome Wednesday morning. We’re both going to pretend you weren’t having a wonderful day.”

  I shrugged again. “I’ve got a killer eye cream; keeps them from getting puffy no matter how much I bawl. I can scream and sob and fifteen minutes later, I look like a million bucks again. Well, a thousand bucks, anyway.”

  “Elien.”

  It was the same clinical, professional frustration that I’d heard one too many times from Richard. I let my gaze slide away and realized Mason had left.

  “Gotta catch my ride,” I said, slipping around Zahra.

  She caught my arm. “Elien, I’m sorry. That wasn’t appropriate; I didn’t mean to confront you like that. I just think—you have a way with people here. You help them. You helped Stephanie today, when Tamika was giving her a hard time.”

  “Put it in my chart,” I said. “So you’ll have something to gab about with Richard at lunch tomorrow.”

  Zahra pursed her lips. “May I ask you for a favor?”

  “I’m pretty busy,” I said. “Tomorrow I have to have a panic attack and slit my wrists.”

  “I think Ray is really struggling. Could you check in on him this week? Do you have his number?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I tried to think back to what Ray had said, but it had vanished. Alanis Morissette on repeat. “I’ll text him.”

  “You’re kind of a senior member,” Zahra said. “I think you could be a leader in the group, Elien. That might be good for you.”

  “The only thing I’m a leader in,” I said, patting my stomach, “is carbs. If you need a general for the cinnamon roll army, give me a call.”

  Zahra pursed her lips again, but I slipped away before she could say anything else. When I got outside, Muriel was already sitting at the curb in the Subaru. I flashed her an apology wave as I hurried down the steps of DuPage First Methodist. A few cars down, Mason was getting into the passenger seat of a brown Ford sedan. He paused, and then he turned and stared at me, as though somehow he had sensed me looking at him. I broke toward the car, slid in beside Muriel, and said, “Home, Jeeves.”

  “I do not get paid enough for this,” Muriel grumbled as she pulled into traffic.

  DAG (2)

  Mason continued to look over his shoulder as he got in the car.

  “In or out,” I said. “It’s a million degrees out there.”

  “Yeah,” he said, dropping into the seat and dragging the door shut.

  I fiddled with the A/C, which cooled the car to an arctic eighty degrees, and then realized the audio had cut out.

  “Hey,” I said. “You’re sitting on my iPod.”

  “You are twenty-seven years old,” Mason said, digging the brick of black plastic out from under his butt. He fiddled with the wire that ran to the tape deck, where an adapter was—in theory—supposed to be playing whale songs. Somehow Mason got himself tangled in the cord, and after almost a full minute of watching him get more and more wound up, I reached over and started the detangling process.

  “You’re twenty-seven years old,” Mason repeated when he was free, shoving the iPod into my hands. “Twenty-seven. Two. Seven.”

  “You’re twenty-eight.”

  “You have a job,” Mason said, flopping back in the seat, arms across his chest.

  “We have the same job,” I said.

  “You have a savings account.”

  “Twenty-seven dollars,” I said, “before I had to buy you lunch last week.”

  “You have a checking account.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  Mason stopped, his jaw hanging open, but then he recovered and waved that aside. “And, as a sheriff’s deputy, you have a pension.”

  “We have the same pension.”

  “You are, by any legal standard, an adult.”

  “I’m going to repeat the fact that you are one year older than me.” I brushed at my temple. “And you’ve got a little, you know, gray. It’s just coming in. You’re blond, so it doesn’t matter that much. But just so you know.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Mason said. “And presumably one day, some nice guy is going to put a baby inside you.”

  “I think that might be homophobic.”

  “It’s not, because I fully support you one day having a baby inside you.”

  “I still think—”

  “And all of this is my way of saying, why are you not a fucking adult yet? You’ve got mustard on your face, and you’ve got an iPod from nineteen-fucking-ninety-seven and a car from ni
neteen-fucking-nineteen.”

  “Ah,” I said, catching the mustard on the corner of my mouth with a thumb. “Bad day.”

  I hit Play on the iPod, and whale songs filled the car again as I eased away from the curb.

  “No,” Mason said.

  I turned up the whale songs. Just a little.

  “No, do not dismiss this as a bad day.”

  “A little quieter, please. I’m listening to this.”

  “Do not ignore what I’m saying just because I had a bad day.”

  “So you did have a bad day.”

  Mason rolled down the window, and hot, steamy Louisiana-even-in-October air whipped through the car. It smelled like the lake, like wet vegetation, and diesel exhaust. There was also a little of Mason’s cologne, which was probably called something like Bro or Douche, but with an accent mark so it looked French.

  “So,” I said. “How was the meeting?”

  “I don’t want to talk about the meeting.”

  I bumped up the volume of the whale songs.

  After we drove another two blocks, Mason punched the radio off.

  “I’m an asshole,” he announced.

  “You have your moments.”

  “I’m a fucking dick munch.”

  “You brought me coffee on Friday. That wasn’t a dick munch move.”

  “No, I’m a total dick munch. It’s those meetings.” Mason scrubbed a hand through his hair. “That’s a lie; it’s not those meetings. There’s this guy. Elien.” He said the name with playground-level disgust. “He’s such a . . .”

  “Dick munch?”

  “Yes.” Mason threw his head back, and it bounced off the cloth-covered headrest. “He’s the absolute worst. You should have seen him today.”

  Bragg, LA, wasn’t exactly hopping even during rush hour; it was a quiet city, the parish seat of a quiet parish. If you wanted small-city excitement, you could drive over to Covington, in St. Tammany Parish. And if you wanted big-city excitement, you could drive across Lake Pontchartrain and head into New Orleans. Although, in that case, you’d have a high chance of having to deal with tourists, which was kind of like saying you’d have a high chance of having to scrape the shit crust out of a toilet, so it was kind of a toss-up. Traffic was starting to pick up, Cadillacs and Mercedes mixed with Chevys and Pontiacs, some of them almost as old as my Ford Escort. When we got to the next light, the smell of butter and Tony Chachere and shrimp came in from the fry shop on the corner.