Page 9 of Pieces of Ash
Sitting on the side of my bed, I press my knees together under my skirt and call out, “Come in,” with an unsteady voice.
The door opens, and Mosier steps into the room.
My fifty-one-year-old stepfather, who believes he’s mybrother-in-law, is tall, dark, and muscular. The sleeves of his shiny, dark gray suit jacket strain over his upper arms, though his pants are tailored perfectly. This is by design, of course, to show the world his muscles, to dare lesser men to take a swing at him and regret it later.
His hair, shaved to half an inch and oiled, makes his head look like a glistening black bowling ball. It smells strongly of theproduct he uses, which is spicy and thick and has always turned my stomach.
I don’t need to look at him to picture his face in my mind. He keeps a permanent five o’clock shadow on his jaw, likely to cover the myriad pockmarks and scars that cover his skin. His eyes are dark brown, and his nose is crooked, likely from being broken multiple times and having never been repaired well.
One time, when Tig and I were standing across the living room from Mosier and his sons, she drew my attention to his lips and lashes. His lips are full and pouty, and his jet-black lashes are so long, they look almost fey.
“It’s like he had a shot at being handsome once upon a time,” she’d noted in a bitter whisper, “before his black soul took over his face.”
Since I’ve known Mosier, he’s always left the door cracked an inch when we were alone in a room together. The fact that he doesn’t today makes my heart race and my stomach flip over. I stare down at my lap as he strides across the room in his dark suit to stand before me, a jarring island of dark masculinity in this fluffy pink sanctuary.
His black shoes stop beneath my gaze, and they are so shiny, I can see my hazy reflection in them.
“Cenusa, look at me.”
I fold my hands so they’ll stop shaking and look up at him.
“Mmm,” he groans, tilting his head to the side and rubbing the black bristles on his jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Sobeautiful.” He drops his hand and tilts his head to the other side, cajolingly. “Don’t you have a hello for me?”
“H-hello,frate.”
“Frate.Brother. Hmm,” he hums softly, narrowing his eyes at me. “No. Your sister is gone now. You can call me Mosier.”
I gulp, unsure of what to say. Calling himfratewas his idea. It’s what I’ve called him since the day we met. Why should we change it now?
“Say it,” he commands. “Say my name. Say ‘Hello, Mosier.’”
Why it feels wrong to say his name, I’m not sure, but he is staring down at me expectantly, so I whisper, “Hello, M-Mosier.”
“Yes,” he says, his plump lips lifting to a grin as he lowers himself to his knees on the floor before me. “Cenusa, cenusa, cenusa,” he moans softly, his mouth not far from my knees. “Beautifulcenusa. My angel.”
He hasn’t touched me, but everything in me rejects his close proximity and the tenderness in his voice when he draws out my nickname and calls me his angel. I catch a waft of his thick, spicy hair oil, and it makes my stomach bubble up uncomfortably. I don’t like the way he is looking at me, and I don’t like the way he touched me under the table during the reading of my mother’s will. I didn’t like the noises I heard coming from the bedroom he shared with my mother, or the screams I heard—more than once—coming from his study. I don’t like it that my mother died of a drug overdose when I saw her two weeks ago for Easter and she seemed, well, notokay, maybe, but noton anythingeither.
There is almost nothing I like about the man on his knees before me. I wish he would stand up, turn around, and leave. Why is the door closed? Why is he here? What does he want from me?
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I look up at him, instantly sorry that I didn’t keep my gaze down. Behind his dark brown eyes, I don’t see kindness or compassion. I see insatiable want. I see ruthlessness. I see desire and demand.
My heart races in my ears.
When he reaches out and places his hand on my left knee, I jerk it away.
“Oh,cenusa,” he says, clamping his hand on my kneecap and digging his fingers through the thin crepe and into my tender flesh, “your modesty does you credit.” He leans his dark head down and rests his cheek on my other knee. “But you will learn towelcomemy touch.” Rotating his head just slightly, the movement forces my knees apart, and he presses his lips to the fabric covering my lower thigh. “Or not.”
“What…” I am breathless, trying to figure out what is going on here. “W-what do you mean?”
“Tell me, sweetcenusa, have you studied the Book of Deuteronomy? At school?” He lifts his head but not his hand, which he slides higher, kneading the flesh of my thigh through the thin fabric of my skirt. “In Deuteronomy, there is something called a levirate marriage. You have heard of it?”
I am well versed in Scripture, but my mind is too jumbled to focus on the specific text he’s referring to.
“I, um…”
“It is an ancient law that says that if a man dies, his widow shall marry his brother.”
“I…I remember now,” I gasp, desperate for him to remove his hand.
