"Deacon Ash"

Chapter 5: The Storm

My first official morning back in Blackwood, Mississippi, I had awakened at eleven-forty-five am, sprawled out on the living room floor inches from the sofa, my intended temporary bed. I recalled flopping down on the couch, but certainly not rolling of off it in the night. My head was thumping as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to my skull, respects of my body's replenishment of more Jim Beam and coke when I got back from the bar.

I had taken a cold shower, my normal remedy for such a hangover. I wanted to head back to the sofa, but I had made a commitment to tidy up the place. I had dressed in the exact same clothes from the day before since my attire had already been dirtied. The shirt my daughter had given me was about to take another hit.

Before I initiated the arduous task, I had gobbled down some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches hoping they would do the trick to help settle my stomach. The need to regurgitate almost overtook me but I overpowered the heaves despite my churning insides. I waited a while longer until the episode had subsided before I began the Victorian beautification process.

So there I was with a splitting headache and suspect insides, brainstorming on where to begin first until I saw the black dog back inside the house running to-and-fro. I had been distracted with eagerly trying to understand how the mangy canine made its way back inside. Somewhere within the muddy waters of my shallow memory I remembered that it had barged past me when I opened the door to let myself in after coming back from the bar...and it was at that point that I noticed it was a "he". The more I thought of it, the more my recollection had shown me that he had followed me to the kitchen, had watched me drink. I had become annoyed and escorted him out of the house. The last thing I remembered before I faded to black was taking the seemingly long, equilibrium-challenged stroll to the sofa to stretch out. Content that I had successfully reconstructed the scenario as best I could on how the dog re-entered my humble abode, I delayed the cleaning no further.

I went to the utility closet to see what I had to work with. I found the broom with dustpan, mop with bucket, and an array of cleansers and disinfectants. Adjacent to those items was a clear plastic bag full of rags and terry cloth towels. I wasn't really looking forward to all the work that had to be done but I was glad that I at least had all the necessities. I had made my selection of supplies and tossed the items in the mop bucket. I cradled the broom with dustpan and mop under my arms and carried the mop bucket of supplies up the stairs. I had set the materials in the hallway to contemplate where to begin.

First, I ventured in to all three bedrooms and opened up all the blinds to let some outside light in. Once I learned that the lights did not work in any of the rooms, confirmed after having checked the light bulbs, I made a mental note to express my disgruntlement somewhat more sternly to Angelos.

Asking myself why I hadn't done so in the first place, I took the time to check the breaker boxes and learned that this wasn't the root of the issue. I was glad that I checked. I would have felt like a jackass had Angelos come and rectified the problem by flipping a breaker or two.

Once satisfied that I had exhausted all measures to ensure that the lights were truly inoperative, I had settled on beginning the cleaning task in my foster mother's bedroom.

I entered the room to find that it was as I had last seen it. With the exception of the tarp coverings absolutely nothing had changed. The queen size bed with simple round top three legged night stands at the head of the bed on each side, the ivory dresser with attached square flat mirror, the oak table and fold up chair in front of the window were all in the exact same place.

As each second passed, I had begun to overflow with guilt like a swollen river wreaking havoc on a failing levy. Trickling at first, then a rushing wave of emotions drowned me. I had dropped to my knees as the tears flowed. I had cupped my hands over my face, hiding my shame from no one but me. My foster mother had given me so much love and compassion and I hadn't returned the same type of sentiment when she had fallen ill. My headache had intensified along with the pain in my heart. My commitment to the task at hand raised me up off of my knees saving me from further internal suffering. I blocked out the guilt, hid the shame, and I proceeded to tidy her room. By the time I had finished her room, I was amped to finish the first day of work.