Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday
by Ragan Sutterfield

It had been raining since the afternoon, and the street lamps reflected
white on the pavement. The rain had moved from a shower to a storm to
the steady, regular drops of a New Age C.D. It was dark-the
streetlights had come on early-but the rhythms of the evening were
catching up to the light. David Hays looked out of his third story
flat-the light from the window catching on the rain.
Anne would be home in less than an hour, and David wanted dinner to be
ready when she got there. He stood at the sink letting the warm water
run over his hands. In a colander he had onions and tomatoes, green,
red and yellow peppers, and a bunch of carrots he would add to the
rice. He washed them, turning them under the water, feeling their
smooth and rough and crooked textures.
Today was Wednesday, and tomorrow was Valentine's. Everything for the
next day, the Champagne and the chocolate, a necklace and a matching
bracelet, were all hidden, deep in the corners of his closet. Tomorrow
they would go out, dance maybe, drink some and make love, but tonight
they would eat together, hold each other on the couch, and be glad that
things had changed.

A year ago, and four months, David ended an affair, and told Anne. How
things started with the other woman David never really knew. She was a
woman he had met at work. They were in different departments, but one
time they had a meeting together, and then another meeting, and ended
up going out for drinks. It all passed like a haze, but once the affair
got started it lasted half a year. When it was over David felt like a
dream had passed and now he was awake in the morning after, but there
were dirty sheets, notes, flowers hung and dried-what had happened had
happened in time and space. He told Anne, left a number, and went to
Milwaukee.
When he got there he worked hard and most of the time. His company let
him transfer and he got promoted in the end. But for David the time was
lonely and lost. He wanted to change, to be different from before-he
went to counseling, he quit drinking, and toward the end of it he felt
like things were different. After six months he called Anne, and they
began talking-seeing each other again.
They started things slowly. David would take weekend trips to Chicago,
and they would go out, eat dinner, see a movie. At night David would go
back to his room in some hotel and wonder how it would all turn out.
David and Anne did this for four months and at the end David asked Anne
to marry him again.
They had a ceremony, a small one with just them and a minister, in the
spring after the year David had left. David had wanted the ceremony,
symbols spoke to him, and he wanted to show Anne that he was serious in
his regret, serious about making things work. She was forgiving and
with the wedding they felt together, stronger than they had been
before. They grew in their love, and David felt like nothing, no one
could draw them apart again.

David pulled the colander from the sink and shook the water from it.
He dried the vegetables on a blue-checkered towel, and laid them on a
cutting board. The peppers and onions he cut in long slices so that
they would lie easily on the grill. The carrots he diced, and the
tomatoes he cut in quarters to bake. He laid them all in little piles
on the counter.
David ran his hands under the water, shook them dry, and wiped them on
his pants. He walked around the corner from the kitchen into the closet
in his bedroom, and pulled the chain to the single light that hung
behind the door. He dug through the clothes on his side of the closet
and found a worn, thick, blue sweater and pulled it on over his shirt.
He walked out, straightening his hair with his hands, over to the heavy
oak vanity that stood against the wall. On it there laid a variety of
jewelry boxes and bottles of different shapes and sizes. David glanced
at them, looking for his cologne, and paused. Lying among the jewelry
in a small crystal bowl were rosary beads. It was the rosary Anne's
grandmother had given her at her confirmation. It was cheaply made,
with green plastic beads, and an aluminum cross coated with something
brighter. He hadn't seen the rosary in years. It had been, until now,
in a box of other keepsakes in the corner of Anne's closet-stored away
with her grandfather's watch and cuff links, and some pins she had
earned in Girl's Scouts. David picked up the rosary and fingered it,
and then set it back in the bowl.
He walked out through the kitchen to the back door that opened onto
the porch. It was a small porch-more a fire escape landing than a
deck-and the only thing on it was a small grill, and a bucket filled
with brushes and other grilling supplies. David took the grill from the
base and laid it against the wall. He scrubbed it hard with a wire
brush-knocking little charred pieces off until the silver of the grill
showed through. David set the grill back on the base, and turned on the
gas and the starter. It was cold, as most Chicago Februaries are cold,
and he shivered a little against the wind. David liked the feeling of
cold; he liked the way it made him aware of every part of his skin. He
stayed outside as the grill heated up, watching his breath appear and
disappear.
When the grill was hot David went inside the kitchen rubbing his hands
in the warm. He pulled out the steaks he had been marinating in the
refrigerator and walked to the grill, holding the tray carefully,
trying not to spill any of the marinade. He could feel the heat from
the grill like a campfire as he opened the lid. The steaks hissed
against the grill as he laid them across it. He could smell them as
their juices dripped down and bubbled up in the fire.
David lowered the lid and put his hands in his pockets. In times like
this, outside in the cold and waiting he felt like smoking. He had
promised Anne that he would quit six months ago, and he had. Not a
cigarette. At first he had put on weight, five pounds and then ten. But
it all balanced out; he and Anne started taking walks in the morning.
It was good for him, all in all, but even with time he wasn't sure he'd
ever be free of the urges. David pushed his hands deeper into his
pockets, resisting, and rocked in the cold.
After several minutes David went inside to check on the rice that was
cooking on the stove. It was beginning to boil over, and he rushed to
turn down the heat. He opened the lid and checked the water; the steam
came up dampening his face. He brushed it with a towel and started on
the tomatoes. He sprinkled them with rosemary and dry parmesan and
arranged them on a pan to put them in the oven. Everything was almost
ready. The salad was on the table, the rice was almost done, and the
meat was cooking on the grill.
David set a candle on the table and lit it, and then went outside to
turn the meat. The aroma met him as he opened the door-the smoke
streaming steadily from the vents. He opened the lid and stood back to
avoid the heat. When the smoke cleared he stepped forward and turned
the stakes with a long, double pronged grilling fork. They hissed as
the juices collected and fell on the flame. They were still tender, and
were browning well on the outside. David went inside, and returned to
the grill with the peppers and onions and laid them between the strips
of meat. He closed the grill again and stood beside it, waiting.
David looked out at the alley behind the flat. There was a street lamp,
just above eyelevel with the porch. It had lots of wires, maybe thirty,
going in and out of the pole, all meeting at the light. They were
telephone lines David guessed, and he felt like he could stare at them
for hours, tracing them back and forth. He heard the door of the
building open and close and then steps coming up the stairs. He
listened for them to stop at his door, but they moved past and he heard
a door slam above.
He opened the grill again and turned the meat and vegetables with a
fork. They looked finished, and David went inside and got a big platter
to put them on. He stabbed at the meat, and slid it over to the
platter, balancing it on his arm. He then pulled the vegetables from
the grill, losing a few through the grid, and put them around the edge
of the platter with the meat at the center. David knocked the lid of
the grill closed with his elbow, and managed to free a hand to turn off
the gas.
When he got inside he covered the platter with a sheet of tin foil, and
then turned down the heat on the rice, and tomatoes. He looked around
the kitchen to see if there was anything else to be done. The plates
were out, and two glasses. All of the food was cooked, and warm-ready
to be put in serving dishes. He went to the drawer and pulled out two
knives and forks, set them by the plates, and folded two paper napkins
from a holder on the table into neat triangles. Everything looked
ready, and David turned off the light, leaving the room with only a
candle.

When David and Anne were younger their routines were less predictable.
They would come home at different times. They would call each other at
work to plan their nights. But now that they were older they had found
the grooves in life. Every evening they would come home and be together
until their days began again. It was these routines, really, that had
strengthened their bond after the break up. Their love became a
habit.

David glanced at his watch. It was six thirty, and Anne was late. He
went into the bathroom off the kitchen. This was the bathroom Anne used
and beside the sink there was a large porcelain dish full of different
colored soaps. They each smelled of different things-pine, lavender,
vanilla and several David couldn't place. He washed his face and arms
with them. He could sense Anne in their smell.
David dried his face and hands with a towel, and went into the living
room, sat down on the couch, and flipped on the television. T.V. always
bored David, but he watched it anyway. It was a kind of Yoga for
him-his daily meditation. The blue light, the canned laughter-he could
relax without relaxing, laugh without laughing. He flipped through the
channels.
Outside cars passed on the street, their wheels humming on the wet. He
heard the muffled voices of people as they passed on the sidewalk. It
was seven. David sat trying not to be anxious. But every time he heard
a car slow outside he would go to the window. The rain had stopped, and
everything glistened with a mix of black and white that seemed like
warm and cold at once. His mind ran through the scenarios of why she
was late. He imagined her boss giving her a stack of papers that needed
to be typed at the end of the day. He imagined traffic being slow
because of the rain. He imagined wrecks and emergencies. He began to
worry.
David tried to watch television. There was a sitcom on he had never
seen about a coffee shop, there was a reality show in a tree house,
animal kingdom on PBS, an entertainment magazine, a news magazine. He
couldn't concentrate on anything. He waited, looking from the window to
the T.V. and back again.

Before the affair things had been normal. David and Anne loved each
other, they did not argue angrily or often, they lived as they imagined
they would-together and happy. Every day repeated itself. Their
feelings did not change. But then something began to happen. David felt
like his heart skipped a beat and then another-his rhythms fell out of
sink. He felt frustrated at the repetitions. He loved Anne still, but
he felt trapped by her somehow, like her rhythms created dissonance
with his. This was when he met the other woman and things began to
change.

David glanced at his watch again. He thought of how things were
different with Anne, of how he had discovered her since he'd been back.
He ran his hands through his hair, and got up and went to the window.
He felt its cold against his forehead. The lights of cars flashed
below. David breathed against the glass and stood back to watch the
circle of his breath disappear.

When David came back after the affair he started new habits. He woke up
early and ate breakfast with Anne. They would listen to the radio, sip
coffee and eat cold cereal in the quiet. When they finished David would
take Anne's hand and hold it. They would take their showers together.
Sometimes they would make love before they left. And then Anne would
drive David to the El and they would talk in quiet sounds against the
noise of the traffic. At night when he held her, he would block out
everything but the beat of her heart beneath his hand.

David walked to the couch and sat down. He flipped through the
channels, running through them over and over, not settling on anything.
He flipped off the television and walked down the darkened hall to the
kitchen. He turned off the low heat and put everything in the oven. The
candle on the table stood burning, the wax collecting in a red-white
puddle around its base. David blew out the candle, its smoke rising, a
steady stream in the dark. He walked back to the living room and lay
down-his face against the back of the couch.

It was after they began again that David started cooking. Before then
they would eat out or order food or cook something quick together. But
when he came back, every week David would take a night off early and
cook dinner. These nights were Anne's favorite, he thought; she began
to trust him again.

At eight David heard the door to the building close, and then footsteps
on the stairs. He went to the door of the flat and opened it. Anne came
up shaking the rain from her coat. She looked tired from the traffic.
David came out onto the landing as she came up, and he took her coat
and bent to hug her. "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was going to be so
late," she said taking her coat from him and hanging it by the door.
She took off her scarf and hat and hung them on the coat rack too, and
then turned and came toward David to kiss him. The light was dim in the
entryway, but as she came close David saw a dark smudge on her
forehead. It looked like grease or ashes and it made the faint outline
of a cross. David reached up to wipe it away, but she drew back.
"I went to an Ash Wednesday service, it's the ashes." She said.
David felt a burning in his face. His shoulders grew tense, and his
stomach filled with a sinking feeling that seemed to spread through his
body. He felt hurt, but he couldn't say why.
"It's okay," he said, his voiced choked. He breathed deep, kissed her
on the cheek and led her to the kitchen where he put the cold food in
the oven to warm.

Anne and David were occasional in their religion. They had been raised
Catholic, but their religion had never been daily. They went to church
on some days. They went most Easters, and with their families on
Christmas, but Ash Wednesday had never been a day they celebrated. And
so, to David the mark on Anne's forehead felt like a betrayal. He felt
like it was the sign of some secret piety Anne had hidden from him like
an affair of the heart. And now she showed it on this night that was
supposed to be their night, now interrupted by a holiday on which David
felt that religious people, however otherwise normal, all seemed like
fanatics. He tried to suppress these thoughts, but they kept coming to
him as he set dinner out on the table. Anne poured them drinks. He
quietly glanced at her forehead.
After the food was set on the table, he and Anne sat down, and began to
dish their food out in silence. David watched for signs of a prayer,
but Anne gave none.
"These steaks look wonderful, dear." She said. "Everything smells
delicious."
"Thanks," David said quietly and shortly.
"I really am sorry I was so late." Anne said sliding her hand over
David's thigh, "I didn't know I was going to be so late. I just passed
by the Church and saw it was Ash Wednesday and... just decided I wanted
to go."
"You could have called and I could have come too." David said.
"I know I could have. I didn't think it would be so long though, and I
didn't think you liked that sort of thing anyway." She said.
"What do you mean by that sort of thing?" He asked.
"You know religious sorts of things."
"I didn't know you liked those sorts of things." He said.
"I don't usually. I don't know; I just wanted to go for some
reason."

They ate in silence for a few moments-chewing their food carefully,
taking small sips of their iced tea. Anne asked David about his
day.
"I got a big contract in Seattle." He said. "I'll have to go up there
in a couple of weeks. Could you come?"
"In a couple of weeks I could," she said, "I have vacation time."
They cut little bits of their steak and took sips of their tea. David
pushed his plate away, and leaned back.
"We should get a bed and breakfast up there." She said. "I've never
been up there."
"We could take an extra few days after my work is over. I guess it's a
bad time of year up there though." He said.
"Maybe we could go skiing."
"Yeah, maybe." He said.

Anne pushed her plate back, and David got up and put what was left of
the food in Tupperware dishes and set them in the refrigerator. Anne
began to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. When she had
finished she splashed the water from her hands and wiped them on a
towel. David came up behind her and slipped his hand up under her shirt
and put it against her stomach. David had always liked this part of
Anne-it felt warm, like her life was there. She turned to him and
kissed him looking up into his eyes. He looked into hers, and at the
edge of his sight he could see the black mark. He drew back a
little.
"Is something wrong?" Anne asked.
"No, I'm sorry, it's nothing." He said.

David took her by the hand and they went to the living room. It was
dark and the street lights came through the windows onto the floor.
They sat down on the old, tired couch, and Anne leaned against
David-the blue light of the television playing off their faces. They
watched a show, a news magazine special about lost siblings finding one
another again. David wondered about meeting someone, your brother or
your sister and not recognizing them. He held Anne and he moved his
hand up her shirt. He let it rest against her stomach and felt its
warmth; he felt like life was welling up.
Even with the television everything seemed quiet. David sat feeling
completely alone with Anne. He listened-their breaths, someone walking
quickly past on the street. David felt like he could feel Anne's pulse
beneath her skin or his pulse in his hands, he couldn't tell. He felt
like Anne and he were together, and that was all.
Anne began to sleep. She was small against his body; her hair was
against his face. David felt like he could smell her day in it. He
smelled her shampoo, her work, the exhaust of the cars. He began to
drift to sleep too. David lay a long time trying to match his breath to
hers.
He glanced at the clock on the VCR. It was eleven. David got up moving
gently from beneath Anne, laying aside her embrace. He bent over her
and gently lifted her from the couch, and walked with her down the hall
into their bedroom. She was half asleep, but she lay still and closed
her eyes; she mumbled as he laid her down. David pulled her clothes off
gently and drew the sheets up over her. He took his shoes off and lay
beside her for a moment. He bent down and kissed her stomach and her
face. He touched the smudge of Ashes lightly with his hand.
David got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. He took several
pieces of toilet paper and dampened them with warm water. David went
back into the bedroom. Light from the street cast a grey blue light
around the blinds. He listened to Anne, trying to decide if she was
asleep. Her breaths were deep, and wide apart. David sat again on the
bed and bent over Anne very carefully, trying not to wake her. With the
damp toilet paper he gently touched the mark on her forehead, he wiped
it once, carefully, and then again and then a third time. The mark
faded with each wipe of the damp tissue. David watched her breathing in
the streetlight.
David slipped on his shoes, grabbed a jacket and walked outside. The
air was cold and he could feel every breath in his lungs. It was quiet.
Down the street where the shops were, dim lights shown inside. David
felt a warm kind of lonely.
He walked down the street for a few blocks until he came to a
convenience store that was open. He went inside, and got in line for
the cash register behind an old man with a stubble beard who was buying
bread and milk. The cashier looked at David, tired.
"A pack of Camels." David said.

He hadn't smoked for months, but he felt like it didn't matter any
more. He felt, deeply, like Anne was leaving him. David knew that it
wasn't true, that tomorrow was Valentine's, that they loved each other
and that things wouldn't change now. But he felt too that she had a
secret that she had kept from him, that she was betraying him somehow.
He felt that he was alone. David walked down the street, the tree
branch shadows playing on the sidewalk. He smoked a cigarette with cold
breaths.
When he got home David went to the porch in the back, and leaned
against the cold, black metal rail, and smoked another cigarette. He
looked at the light poll with all of the wires crossing. A hundred
conversations, a hundred lives had passed through those wires, he
thought. David touched the metal rail with his hand, and took a deep
draw on his cigarette. The cigarette tasted sour. He coughed. David put
it out half done, and held the stub in his hand. He rubbed his fingers
against the ashes. He felt his forehead. He watched his breaths
disappear.