Page 51 of Pieces of Ash
I close the door behind me and step down the hallway to his room. My heart quickens as I turn the knob—if he found me in his bathroom, the only lavatory on the first floor, I could make a plausible excuse. But there’s no excuse for my poking around in his room, and I know it.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I think, stepping into the cool, dim room.
As my eyes adjust to the lack of light, I inhale the now familiar smells of Native and Beekman, which engulf me,making me whimper softly. The unique combination of woods, spice, and sweetgrass mark the room as his space, and it makes my stomach tighten like it wants something very badly. It almost feels like hunger, but I just ate half a bowl of macaroni.
My mind, looking for context and answers, offers up a memory from several months ago.
“What is the difference between hunger, desire, and lust, girls?”
Sister Agnes’s Irish brogue sounds in my head, her lecture on the seven deadly sins in full swing now.
There is a dusting of giggles among the girls in my class, and Sister Agnes strikes her desk with the back of a wooden ruler. “Focus, girls. Hunger, desire, and lust. The difference, please?”
No one dares answer, and I look around, wondering if anyone will be bold enough to raise her hand.
“No one?” she asks, her eagle eyes sharp behind bifocals. “Then I shall explain. Hunger is hunger. It is a physical need over which you have no control. Your stomach aches for food. If you eat—not to the point of gluttony, girls, but enough to satiate your hunger only—the ache will disappear.” She pauses, watching us, and we nod at her in understanding. “Desire is a kind of hunger, but within the context of Christian marriage, a hallowed kind. Desire for one’s husband may even be considered a Godly gift, for from that blessed hunger may come children born of wedlock, who are welcomed into Christ’s kingdom.”
She crosses her arms over her ample chest and lifts her chins. “Now, lust? A deadly sin. Satan’s evil work. Beware lust, girls. Lust is also a kind of hunger. A very wrong and very bad sort of hunger. It is self-seeking. It is blinding. It is consuming, and you will never be full. And, make no mistake, girls, lust will separate you from the love of God.”
Lust, I think, standing in the doorway of Julian Ducharmes’s room, secret muscles deep within my body alive and quivering.This must be lust.
I gulp, hoping that my thoughts alone aren’t enough to strike me down where I stand. When nothing happens, I exhale softly, stepping into his room.
If my room is heaven, then his room is Eden.
The floorboards, molding, and furniture are made from dark wood, sophisticated and deep, overwhelmingly masculine, but tempered by their placement within…a garden.
In the far corner, a tree is painted on the wall, the thick trunk rising up from the floor. Beautiful branches, covered with green leaves, pink buds, and delicate blossoms, billow out on both walls. Over my head, more painted boughs cover the ceiling, with blue sky and sunlight peeking out from under the branches. Hanging from the middle is a chandelier with arms of brown glass emulating branches, dotted with hundreds of tiny green glass leaves and pink petals.
I gasp softly at the beauty of this room, just as I did when I first saw my own, and think,It’s like standing in the middle of spring.
In front of me is a bed, from which I avert my eyes quickly, finding a chair, a side table, and a lamp. On the table is a tablet plugged into an outlet.For reading or watching TV, I think, adding,in French.
Stepping over to the bureau, I find two framed pictures on the chest, one of a much younger Julian standing beside a young girl, who I assume is his sister, and another of a bearded man, with the same young versions of Julian and his sister. His father, perhaps. The man’s eyes remind me of Father Joseph’s, warm and wise, and I smile at the picture before setting it back down.
When I open the top drawer of the dresser, I find underwear and socks carefully folded. My cheeks flush, and I’m about toclose the drawer when I see something in the back corner. I reach inside and pull out a black leather wallet. Only, when I open it, I discover it’s not a wallet. It’s a badge case. On the left side it readsDepartment of Homeland Securityin gold embossed letters. On the right side is a place where a badge is supposed to go. But it’s empty.
I run my finger over the letters before putting the leather case back where I found it and closing the drawer.
Turning around, I lean against the bureau, finally allowing myself to stare at his bed, which is huge and inviting. Covered with a soft, dark green velvet duvet—surely something that Gus chose—the bed is so tempting, I consider lying down for a moment to stare up at the painted sky through painted branches and inhale the scent of Julian Ducharmes all around me. I reach out, running my hand over the supple fabric, sighing softly with longing.
Since the moment I entered Julian’s room, my stomach’s been vacillating between tight and fluttery, but as I stare at the bed, my fingers rubbing the soft fabric, there is a delicious humming, almost a buzzing, between my legs that’s making me vibrate with every shallow and increasingly choppy breath. In the recesses of my mind, I remember the sounds of Tig’s moans and whimpers coming from under the door of her bedroom. I can’t remember the faces of my many “uncles,” but I remember them walking past me on their way to the front door, the musky smell of their skin lingering behind, familiar to me only because it matched that of my mother’s sheets.
Lust will separate you from the love of God.
“I’m not her!” I yell, yanking my hand from Julian’s bed and backing out of the room.
In my haste, I trip over the threshold and into the hallway. Reaching out to break my fall, I knock a framed photo fromthe wall. It crashes to the floor and breaks, splinters of glass scattering everywhere.
“Oh, no!”
At the same time, I hear the high-pitched sound of Julian whistling for Bruno, and I freeze. It hasn’t been an hour. It’s barely been twenty minutes.
Here is your punishment, Ashley Ellis,says a voice in my head, for your impure thoughts.
Leaping over the worst of the glass, I step gingerly into the dining room, looking out of the window to see Julian and Bruno enter my line of sight, headed for the barn door. For just a moment, Julian looks at the house. His gaze lingers on the window in my room. He reaches for his jaw, rubbing it with his thumb and forefinger, then runs his hand through his golden hair.
I stare at his face, at the troubled expression in his evergreen eyes, and realize I’m looking at regret. It placates my hurt feelings to know that he’s sorry for yelling at me.
