Rock'n Tapestries by Shari Copell Page B

homicidal that someone dared
to threaten his little girl.
    I
peered up at Asher. “I’ll go home with you, but no sex.”
    “Of course not.”
     I
giggled at his tone of exasperation.
    After
some preliminary questioning, we were allowed to leave.  I think everyone could
see I just needed some peace and quiet (and sleep) for a day or so before they
started asking the hard questions.
     A
female police officer named Terri offered to retrieve my purse and some clothes
from my apartment.  There are still a lot of nice people in this world despite
what you may see in the media.
    Asher
walked me to his bright red Pontiac GrandAm and opened the door.  I think I
might have been asleep before I hit the seat.
     

     
    Asher
still lived in the two-story row house he’d lived in when I dated him before,
in a small Pittsburgh neighborhood called Panther Hollow in Oakland.  It
would’ve been an easy drive for his mother when she worked at UPMC Hospital.
    I
was so incoherent with fatigue that he plucked me from the car and carried me
to the back door.
    “I
have to put you down to unlock.” Asher stood me on my feet on the concrete
stoop.
    “That’s
all right.  I think I’m awake now.”  Just barely .  I tried to blink the
sleep away.  My ears were ringing.  It felt as though the ground were shifting
under me.
    He
walked me into the house and sat me down on the sofa.  “Wait here. I’ll get
your things from the car.”
    The
sofa was large, made of bumpy brown chenille, so fluffy and soft it felt like a
big hug.  I snuggled back into it. The living room was small, but neat.  I
wondered if Asher did his own cleaning.
    The
thing that struck me the most as I glanced around was the large portrait
hanging over the TV. Debbie Pratt, looking much younger than I remembered her,
was holding a five or six-year-old Asher in her lap. He had on a black, white,
and red-striped polo shirt, top button undone, collar loose and folded under,
as though he’d dressed himself and no one noticed. A mop of honey brown hair,
much lighter then, swooped off to one side above bright, intelligent eyes.  A
small white plastic guitar lay across his lap, his smile as wide as the Grand
Canyon.  The promise of youth.
    Debbie
was a pretty woman, a dishwater-blonde streaked chestnut, with blue eyes and
fine sculpted cheekbones dusted with rose-colored blush. She had full lips that
she’d passed on to her son. His mother was smiling, one arm secured
protectively around his waist, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. 
She’d had it tough—a woman alone in a large city, raising a son by herself. 
She must have worried herself sick about Asher when she knew she wasn’t going
to beat the cancer. 
    He’d
been fiercely devoted to his mother, even back when I dated him.  They were a
team, forged from adversity, and I always got the sense no one would ever come
between them. I frowned  up at the portrait.   Maybe that was the problem.  No
other woman would ever compare to his mother.
    The
back door crashed open, and Asher struggled through with my bags. I silently
thanked Terri, the lady police officer who’d gathered my things for me, though
she’d gone a little overboard, packing two large and heavy overnight
bags.
    I
jumped up from the sofa and took one from him.  “Let me help you with those.”
    “God,
what’s in here?  A dead body?”
    I
froze and choked. “That’s not funny.”
    He
glanced at me, alarmed.  “I’m sorry.  I wasn’t trying to be funny.  They’re
really heavy though. I think I might’ve popped a nut.”
    “I
believe that bag might hold every single cosmetic and bath product I own.” I
laughed. “We women know what’s important.”
    He
headed toward the stairs in the living room.  “I’ll put you in the guest room
for tonight.  Follow me.”
    I
got in line behind him but came to a halt.  “Oh.”
    He
stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to me. “What’s wrong?”
    “I
don’t