A/N: I know that I'm supposed to be working on The Rhett Butler Affair; however, this crazy idea for a one-shot came to me, and I liked it well enough to post it. Thoughts?
George Ashley Wilkes stood slightly reared back with his arms folded and with a satisfied expression upon his face as he watched the last of the orders loaded onto the service lorries and slowly, methodically disappear from the yard. The lumber men, all the buyers and sellers, had departed for the day, leaving the owner of the lumber mill in blissful isolation. He cut a sad figure; his once fine features had been hardened by age and circumstance so much that he owned the appearance of a much older man. He wore a yellowed panama hat, a stringy necktie and a suit that was the same faded grey color as his eyes. His teeth and hair had taken on the color of tobacco in recent years and his face was drawn and ashy.
How long had it been since he had last eaten? He wasn't even certain, although he had a faint recollection of one Scarlett O'Hara Butler pouring hot soup down his throat. He pulled the ancient gold watch out of his coat pocket and examined it, recalling an appointment which had been long ago made and long ago forgotten. He picked up his feet and moved toward the office, then paused for a moment, as though he had forgotten the direction in which he was headed.
I must make the office presentable, he thought with fresh apprehension, at least that can be done for her, at least that.
The freed Negroes on Ashley's payroll shifted aimlessly about as they observed the rambling motions of their employer. They were long accustomed to hearing him talk aloud to himself, or perhaps it was his dead wife to whom his conversation was addressed. Whatever the case, they were shrewd enough to realize that his grief was festering to toxic proportions.
At that moment, he stepped out of the office door and called out to the workers, "If you would be so kind as to call for me when Mrs. Butler's carriage arrives!"
The Negroes mumbled a response; they knew that if Mr. Wilkes should take sick, there would be no replacement for him save for the hard-headed, hard-hearted Scarlett Butler, the exploits of whom were legendary amongst the gossipy genteel Atlanta Old Guard and their equally curious and ever so well-informed servants. They genuinely liked Mr. Wilkes; he was a fair employer, little better than half-witted when it came to figures, but a good worker. With benevolence shining in their eyes, they observed him shuffling across the yard, his figure slack and tall.
Knowledgably, the Negroes nodded amongst themselves. They were sorry to see the once proud planter's son in such a pitiable position, they were sorry that the poor man had been chased out of his once fine mansion and had been forced to take charity from his relatives; however, they were not responsible for his suffering, and frankly, they had their own problems.
The Scarlett Woman was gesticulating wildly as she disembarked from her carriage. Although her hand was kissed by the foreman in a dutiful obeisance, she seemed unsatisfied by all that her eyes rested upon. She left something in the hands of Mr. Wilkes's foreman and rounded the turn toward the office.
She entered the dilapidated building, looking with grudging approval at the spotless floor. Her sharp eyes found Ashley immediately, his gaze fixed upon something within his hand. He didn't see her, as his eyes only beheld the photograph in his hand. He lifted his index finger and traced it lightly over the surface of the picture; suddenly, he saw her, and guiltily met her eyes.
"Why aren't you out in the yard?" she asked, her voice slightly sharper than she had intended. "What have you got there?"
"Nothing," he muttered, and handed it over to her in an automatic gesture of submission. The photograph's subject wore a dress which they both recalled as being grey, with a sash of cherry organdie; her big brown eyes were both bland and composed.
"Oh Melly," Scarlett murmured.
"It's been a year, Scarlett," he said in a hollow voice. "Three hundred and sixty-five days have passed by without her. And even now, on the anniversary of her death, I can't even think about her without my gut just twisting into a thousand knots."
"I still think about her," Scarlett said, her own voice toneless. "Not an hour goes by that I don't think about her. Everything I hear, everything I see, it all reminds me of her. "
"I can hear it now," Ashley continued as if Scarlett had not spoken. "The dirt falling against the casket. Each little clod of earth hitting the wood with a peculiar finality. It was as if, in every single second that passed, she was farther and farther removed from the world. And yet, I saw her everywhere. I still see her, and I frequently converse with her…"
Scarlett's eyes widened at that, and Ashley thought that perhaps he should not have divulged so much.
"It's one sided; you need not worry that I'm suffering from delusions or hallucinations, Scarlett."
"We all loved Melly, Ashley."
"How could we all help loving her? She was the most joyful woman in all the world; gentle and kind and full of love. But Scarlett, to say that I loved her seems to diminish the depth of my feelings. You understand that better than anyone. You understand that without her my life is bleak and colorless and offers no more promises of joy; perhaps you even feel the same way?"
He looked at her hopefully, as if he expected kind words to fall easily from her lips.
"You have to go on, Ashley."
"How can I? All I can think about is her. Even now, all of what I am died with her…and I did her a disservice, Scarlett; I failed to appreciate her while she was alive, and now, selfishly, I cannot bear to let her go."
"Her last thoughts were of you," Scarlett mused aloud.
"Don't say it!" he cried in fresh anguish. "I tied her spirit to me by refusing to let her go! I cried and pleaded for a miracle while she was spending her last precious moments on this earth fearing for me! I can't live without her, Scarlett, I can't!"
"I didn't want to believe that she was dying," Scarlett admitted. "I wouldn't let her go, before. You were off fighting, and she tried to give Beau to me. I wouldn't take him then."
"She loved us both so completely, Scarlett, you and I. And I believe that she knew us better than we knew ourselves. And I do believe that she took everything that was good in me with her when she went…" Ashley's voice trailed off as he began to sob into his hands.
"I understand, Ashley." Scarlett placed a hand upon his heaving shoulder. "People like you and I are selfish. We expect to live out our days without a care in the world and then to have a Melanie around to wipe away our tears when we fall. In those days after she died and Rhett left, I thought that I was ready to just die along with her; at least then I could see her and Bonnie and Mother and Pa. But I survived, Ashley! I survived like I survived before. And you're going to survive like you survived before."
"It's too hard, Scarlett."
She got up and followed him as he began to pace restlessly, a deep pit forming in the center of her forehead as she contemplated her words.
"I'm the one who holds it all together."
His long, bland face showed no comprehension, but he allowed himself to wrap his arms around her slender body and take in the scent of her hair, a foreign smelling concoction of coconuts, limes, and verbena.
"I'll always hold it all together," she repeated with little inflection. "And I'll survive, as I always have…"
The very next day, Ashley continued his toil within his lumber office, sitting on the edge of the black wing chair with his elbows on the desk. As always, he thought of Melanie. He fumbled for a moment or two within his safe, withdrawing his important papers, as well as his revolver. He began to cry gently, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He stood motionless at the desk for a few more minutes, his fingers grasping the gun and tracing over the trigger gingerly. He tried in vain to picture Melanie's gentle face within his mind, yet he could not form a true image; rather, his vision was some skewed mixture of Melly and Scarlett, a frightening juxtaposition of the two women's contradictory features.
His eyes flickered toward the picture of Melanie which rested on his desk. Scarlett had placed it at the very center of his desk after she had taken it upon herself to rearrange all of his important papers the day before. Underneath it lay a sealed envelope which was slightly yellowed around the corners.
With shaking hands, he picked up the envelope and opened it, withdrawing from it its contents, a one page letter adorned with flowery, girlish penmanship. His steely grey eyes skimmed the letter's content several times; then, he let out a moan and the gun fell to the floor in a thud along with the letter. His face was white and he fell to his knees in silent prayer.
One of the Negroes, a half-smiling youth, was standing by with tools in hand as Mr. Ashley Wilkes walked off of the lumber yard, his face filled with a peculiar look, an almost peaceful quality about it.
"Suh?" the boy called. "Iz duh mastah alright?"
An older man in the boy's vicinity nodded. "He sho is. Missus Wilkes won't let him be dis way for all he days. Sho won't. She was sho fine. Ain't never known a lady finer."
A week had passed before Scarlett saw him again. She was standing several feet away from Ashley as he knelt by Melanie's gravesite, quite certain that he had not seen her, and equally certain that she had fulfilled her last promise to Melanie so completely that her own conscience could finally rest more easily. She stood watching him, her heavy black cloak and veiled bonnet obscuring her face. Under the veil, her lips moved silently as she recalled the last sentence of the letter she had written on Melanie's behalf.
What I want and need from you, my dear, is the assurance that you will marry again. Promise me, promise me that you will marry again.
Of all the things that Scarlett resented about him, and they were manifold, she resented the very most that he had not chosen to live on his own accord; once again, she, Scarlett, had saved him.