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Beyond I Do

By Jennifer Slattery

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Ainsley’s stomach churned as she eased into the Whispering Hills Apartments’ parking lot. Broken beer bottles and other trash littered the ground. A few tenants had draped sheets across their windows. Other windows were boarded up. One was busted in, shards of glass held in place by silver duct tape.

"Please tell me this isn’t where Marie. Nelson lives." She compared the address Deborah had given her to the rusted numbers on the complex in front of her. This was the place. And from the looks of it, the very place Ainsley shouldn’t be, at least, not alone.

Her phone chimed, making her jump. She glanced at the screen. Her fiancé’s number flashed.

Cutting her engine, she answered. “Hey, Richard, what’s up?” She shoved her purse and computer case under the passenger seat.

“Where are you?”

“Doing a favor for Deborah. Why, you need something?” She grabbed her pepper spray from the glove compartment.

“Who?”

As if she hadn’t talked about the woman countless times over the years. “Deborah. Eldridge, the one who told me about Christ.” And kept her from going completely insane or spiraling into rebellion when Ainsley’s home life fell apart. “Sometimes I wonder if you ever really listen.”

A pack of muscular and hard-faced men gathered around a navy pick-up watched her, causing her already queasy stomach to cramp. There were four of them, two dressed in black with thick chains draped across their neck. The largest was covered, neck and arms, with tattoos. She looked away, suddenly acutely aware of her shiny Honda Accord and department store garb.

Oh, Lord Jesus, please keep me safe.

“That Deborah. Right.” A keyboard clicked on the other end of the line. Richard was probably working on final edits on his book. “Now I remember. So you’re in Smithville?”

“Not exactly. More like…” She scanned her surroundings again, her gaze lingering on a used diaper decaying on the ground ten feet away. “More like… the Admiral Boulevard area.”

Richard made a choking noise, as if spewing coffee. “You’re where? Please tell me you are not in the crime center of Kansas City.”

He let out an exasperated puff of air. “You are, aren’t you?” He muttered something under his breath. “Why must you continue to jeopardize your safety like this?”

“And why must you treat me like a child?”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. But surely you know how dangerous that area is."

“I’ll be fine. It’s broad daylight.Besides, criminals and gang members aren’t the only people who live in this part of town. There’s women and children, senior citizens.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen pictures of some of them flash across the evening news—after they’ve been shot.”

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have. Not now, sitting like a bright, shiny target in an inner city apartment complex’s parking lot. “Goodbye, Richard. I’ll call you when I get home.”

“Tell me exactly where you’re at.”

So he could come rescue her? “Listen, I’ve gotta go..” She ended the call then slipped her cell into her blazer pocket.

Her phone chimed again but she ignored it. Richard was much too sheltered by his high society friends. As her pastor often said, if you don’t know any single parents or folks living in poverty, you needed to get out in the real world, because Jesus didn’t need any seat warmers.

It was time she acted on that same advice. She stepped from her car, and a gust of wind carrying the scent of trash swept over her. Moving to her trunk, she glanced around. A man in a low-rider pulled beside a girl in four-inch heels, a mini-skirt, and bikini top.

Please tell me she’s not doing what I think she is.

Time to drop off her care items then get home. Grabbing her Walgreen’s bag filled with everything from cough drops to orange juice, she locked her car and scurried to unit number 478. A door covered in dirt stood in front of her. Apparently, the only entrance into the complex.

There she stood, looking like a small town librarian, about to enter into ghetto zone. An area known for shootings, rapes, and robberies. So why was she still here and not back in her car headed toward I-70?

Because Deborah said this was important. The woman would’ve come herself, had she been able. And after all she’d done for Ainsley over the years; this was the least Ainsley could do.

Holding her over-stuffed bag and pepper spray in one hand, Ainsley reached for the knob and turned. The door squeaked open, a thick stench of mildew and cigarette smoke permeating the air. A single bulb flickered in the darkened hallway, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Surveying her surroundings, bag clutched to her chest like a shield, she searched for an elevator. All she found was a dark stairwell that smelled of vomit.

A verse taped to her bathroom mirror came to mind: "If you try to hang onto your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake, you will find it."

Lose her life, her rights, for Christ. That was fine when it meant holding babies in the nursery or bringing meals… She glanced at her Walgreen’s bag. Or medicine to shut-ins. She always said she wanted to live God’s adventure, but whenever the chance arose, her fears and insecurities held her back. Not this time. God was giving her the opportunity to put action to her words, and she was determined to see this through.

Finger poised over the trigger of her pepper spray, she climbed up the stairs. Lord Jesus, keep me safe. Lord Jesus, keep me safe. Lord Jesus—

A door above slammed shut, and she startled, nearly dropping her bag. Holding her breath, she pressed against the cool cement wall as heavy footfalls descended toward her. A large woman carrying a poodle rounded the corner with a grunt. Ainsley’s jittery legs went slack as intense relief washed over her. Thank you, Jesus. She offered the woman a shaky smile then faced the remaining stairs with renewed focus. Taking them two at a time, she arrived on the third floor out of breath, heart racing.

Marie Nelson’s apartment was three doors down on the left. From inside, a television blared.

Ainsley knocked then waited, casting frequent glances down the hall.

No answer. She tried again, louder this time. Muffled yelling erupted from the adjacent apartment, followed by a loud crash. Ainsley knocked again, this time using the flat end of her fist, then her foot. Again, nothing. She started to leave when the television turned off. Once again, she knocked, the yelling in the next residence now louder, clearer.

“Can’t even cook fried chicken. What’d I tell you about burnin’ my dinner, you stupid cow?” A deep, male voice. “You disgust me.” There was a high pitched cry followed by a thud.

Domestic violence? An urge to do something welled within her, battling against her fear. Should she call the cops? Absolutely, but first, she needed to get out of here.

She inched toward the stairwell, ready to bolt. The door to the adjacent apartment burst open, and a lanky man with veins bulging along his arms and chest appeared. Tattooed lettering replaced his eyebrows and dime sized studs pierced his ears. He smelled of stale liquor, cigarette smoke, and dried sweat. Behind him a woman cowered on the floor, her back against the wall. Sobbing, she covered her face with her hands. A boy, maybe nine or ten years old, crouched beside her. He looked at Ainsley, tear-filled eyes pleading.
She gasped, her heart aching.

The drunken man slammed his apartment door. “What you staring at?” He glowered, his blue eyes boring into Ainsley with such venom, the hairs on her neck stood on end.

Holding her breath, she inched backward, stumbling over a crease in the carpet. She dropped her bag, the contents spilling out.

The man looked at her, his upper lip curling, hands fisted. He stepped forward, and she closed her eyes, shielding her head with her hands. His footsteps thudded on the ragged carpet then continued past, soon echoing in the stairwell.

She remained on the ground, trembling.

Marie’s door creaked open. “Hello?” An old woman dressed in a lavender housecoat and matching slippers appeared. “You there, did you knock on my door?” She smiled as if completely oblivious to the battle that had occurred in her neighbor’s apartment. And the mess of medicine spilled across the hallway floor.

Ainsley’s heart hammered so hard, her chest began to burn. “Hi.” She scooped her items back into the bag and stood on trembling legs. “I…” She looked from the stairwell to the door, now closed, that hid the broken woman and child. What should she do? What could she do?

“You must be Ainsley Meadows.” Maria opened her door wider, resting her shoulder against it. “Deborah told me you’d be coming.” Her silver hair was pulled into rollers, numerous strands escaping. Her wrinkled face had a yellow tint. Jaundice? Or was that a side effect of chemo?

Ainsley nodded and extended her hand. “Good to meet you.”

The woman coughed, a dry, rattling sound then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Ainsley’s mouth felt dry. She touched her phone, her fingers resting on the smooth plastic case. Did the woman in the next apartment need help? Was it any of her business? The image of the boy, so young, so frightened, cemented in her brain. She knew what it was like to feel as if the world was crumbling. To wonder if the adults in your world cared. She might not have experienced physical abuse, but she understood intense loneliness, the kind that ate at one’s gut and made them wonder if life was worth living. If not for Deborah—

“Don’t just stand there looking like a banked trout.” The woman winked, making a sweeping motion with her arm. “Come in. Come in.” She pulled a wad of tissue from her housecoat pocket and blew her nose.

Ainsley stepped inside, lingering in the entryway. The apartment, a studio, was small but tidy. The furniture reminded her of an old "I Love Lucy" television show, down to the twenty-inch black-and-white television set.

“I brought you cold medicine.” She held her bag out then set it on a Formica table pushed against the wall.

“Isn’t that kind? I’ll tell you what—all that chemo has wreaked havoc with my immune system. Not that I’m complaining none. Just happy to be here, ‘til the good Lord takes me home.” She shuffled over and peaked into the bag. “Oh, my! Jelly beans! My absolutely favorite candy. How did you know?”

Ainsley smiled. “Deborah Eldridge told me.”

“Such a sweet woman; always does remember the little things.” Stifling a cough, she pulled out a bag of lozenges and wrestled the bag open. “Would you like some tea?”

“I...” Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, she cocked her head, listening for sounds coming from the other apartment. Silence. “What’s the story with your neighbors?”

Mrs. Nelson wrinkled her brow. “Neighbors? Oh, you mean sweet Wanda and her good for nothing boyfriend.” Frowning, she shook her head. “Don’t know how many times I told her to leave that low-life. If not for herself, for the safety of her son.” She moved to a paisley loveseat and practically fell into it. “But like my momma used to say—God rest her soul—can’t help someone who won’t help themselves. Still, I pray for her. The good Lord knows how much I pray for her, and that boy.” She winced as if in pain then grabbed a heating pad from the cushion beside her. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes.

The woman was tired. Needed to rest. “Listen, I don’t want to keep you.” Ainsley smiled and pivoted toward the door.

Marie struggled to sit up, her face contorted.

Ainsley raised her hand. “You relax. I can see myself out.” With a wave goodbye, she slipped out and continued down the stairs. Once at her car, she glanced toward the apartment building, focusing on the third floor. The young boy she’d seen inside that dingy apartment stood in front of his opened window. He held Ainsley’s gaze. An urge to go to him, to scoop him up and hold him close, to protect him and his mother, swept through her. To show him how infinitely loved he was. Like Deborah. Eldridge had done for her, back when she was his age.

But what could she do?

Oh, Lord Jesus, please show me what I can do.

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