A Mother's Promise

by K. D. Alden

  Then Ruth Ann herself began to tremble. It started in that same place the ache had, at her diaphragm, and then eddied out along her spine. It dropped down to her knees, then shot up to her lungs, where it emerged in shallow, short breaths and then gasps. What was wrong with her?

  She stood rooted to the floor, wavering like a dandelion in a strong wind.

  Why was she a weed, while Bonnie was a flower?

  Why had Sheila never once, in her recent memory, hugged her—Ruth Ann—the way she was hugging her sister? As if she were precious, as if she couldn’t get enough of her. As if she were the only person who mattered to Sheila in the whole, wide world.

  The ache in Ruth Ann bled into a bitter rending and twisting of every organ in her body. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move her feet, couldn’t think.

  She simply hurt.

  She felt one with pain. One with loneliness. One with rejection.

  She stood there, dry-eyed and speechless and numb, until Ruby’s warm, heavy hand slid around her waist, turned her and walked her out into the hallway.

  It was Ruby who hugged her to her massive bosom and rubbed her back and made soothing noises. She hummed gently. “Everything’s gonna be all right, child.”

  Ruth Ann stood in her embrace like a petrified tree.

  “Breathe now, honey. Deep breath in, deep breath out.”

  She shook her head. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to see. It hurt to think.

  “C’mon, now, Ruthie. Breathe for me. I’m-a tellin’ you, there is stuff in this world that don’t make no sense and never will. Stuff there is no explainin’. But you a good girl, Ruthie. You the best kinda girl. An’ if that ol’—” Ruby took in some air. “If that mmmmm-hmmmm in there cain’t see it, that is her problem. It ain’t yours. You hear me? She crazy. She not all bad, but she plumb crazy. You knows it and I knows it and so does everybody ’cept her and maybe Li’l Pigtails, there. But she’ll find out on her own.”

  Ruth Ann stood silent, still trembling, as Ruby rubbed her arms, up and down, with her big, strong, kind hands.

  From Sheila’s room came the sound of more lullabies and more of Bonnie’s sweet laughter. Then her first word, a glad one, in answer to whether she was happy to see her momma again.

  “Yes!”

  A fresh wave of pain had Ruth Ann doubling over, almost knocked her off her feet. And with it came utter self-loathing. How could she be bitter and jealous over such a lovely, joyful reunion? What kind of person was she? Certainly not a nice one, curdling and souring with envy of her little sister.

  Ruby took her arm. “Come on, Ruthie. You and me, we gonna go get a nice cuppa tea. And a biscuit or two. Will you keep an old woman company?”

  The tea and sympathy did little to banish the ache inside Ruth Ann. The biscuits stuck in her craw; the tea was as bitter as her emotions toward her mother.

  “Why?” she asked Ruby. “Why doesn’t she love me, too?”

  Her friend reached across the scarred wooden kitchen table and took her hand. She squeezed it. “Mayhap she does, in her own way.”

  Ruth Ann shook her head. “She used to. I remember her loving me. But she doesn’t now. Why?”

  Ruby rubbed her thumb over the back of Ruth Ann’s hand. “I don’ have the answer to that question. Maybe you should ask her sometime.”

  “How do I ask her that?”

  Ruby pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “Do I walk in with some tea and toast one morning and drop the question like…some kind of bomb? Or do I sit there with her until she starts railin’ at me on account of somethin’ and then ask her why she hates me so much? Do I write her a letter that she hardly cain’t read, anyways?”

  “More tea?” Ruby asked, getting up.

  “No.” Ruth Ann felt like hurling the cupful she already had against the wall. “Thank you,” she added sullenly.

  “I love you, Ruth Ann,” said Ruby, out of the blue.

  The statement was so unexpected that it hit her like a brick on the head. She sat there blinking, like a frog on a very unstable lily pad.

  Ruby put her hands on her hips and stared at her, eyebrows raised, a smile playing around her mouth.

  Ruth Ann found her voice. “I—I love you, too, Ruby. I really do. You’re always so good to everybody, even if you don’t suffer fools gladly.”

  Ruby chuckled. “Well, you ain’t no fool. So you listen to me. I love you, and little Bonnie will, too. She’ll come to remember you better. But the most important thing is this: God loves you. So you put that in your pipe an’ smoke it.”

  Ruth Ann hid a smile at those words. “I don’t have a pipe, Ruby.”

  Ruby flapped her apron. “Lord save us, you know ’zackly what I mean, Ruthie! Now git on out here,” she said, her tone more affectionate than the words, “and go get your sister, afore Mrs. Jekyll turns into Mrs. Hyde and scares the bejeezus out that little cutie.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I got to get back to work. It don’t never stop, ’round here.”

  No, poor Ruby’s work was never, ever done. That was for sure.

  Ruth Ann put her cup, saucer and plate into the big iron sink and headed for the stairs, her friend’s words echoing through her mind. Why don’t you ask her sometime?

  She reached the landing, and then took the right turn for the second set of stairs. Up she trudged. Could her deepest personal mystery really be solved by doing something so simple? Just asking a question?

  She made her way to room 213, forcing one foot in front of the other, her chin up and her shoulders back like a soldier. If only she had armor to protect her from her mother.

  No sound came from the room. No lullabies and no tinkle of Bonnie’s laughter. It made her nervous as a cat in a rocking chair—she didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if Sheila would physically harm her own child, and especially after such an outpouring of affection—would she? Ruth Ann quickened her steps and all but burst around the doorway.

  Sheila sat there alone in her worn, pale green armchair. Her bony feet, clad in terrycloth slippers, rested on the matching ottoman. She turned her head and skewered Ruth Ann with a glance.

  Why did it even hurt anymore? Silly. “Where’s Bonnie?”

  “Takin’ a tinkle. Why?”

  “Just…asking.”

  “We’re fine. You can buzz off.”

  Anger sizzled through Ruth Ann like a spark of Mr. Franklin’s famous electricity. And before she even knew it, she asked the question. “Why do you hate me so much, Momma? I’m your daughter, too!”

  Sheila’s eyes narrowed on her. “Why do you even need to ask me this?”

  “Why? What did I ever do to deserve it?” she blurted. “What’s wrong with me? Why don’t you love me like you love Bonnie? Why are you so mean to me all the time?”

  Sheila went purple in the face, a vein bulging at her temple and her nostrils flaring. “You know good and damn well why I cain’t stand the sight of you!”

  Ruth Ann stared at her. “I don’t! I don’t! I don’t!”

  “You little wart. You little weasel. You—”

  “Tell me why the hell you hate me so much!”

  “You ran and got people. YOU. You brought people to our house. You’re the whole sorry reason I lost my kids and I’m locked up here like a goddamned monkey in a cage!”

  Twenty

  Wh-what?” Ruth Ann managed.

  “So don’t you play dumb with me, you little bitch,” Sheila spat.

  As Ruth Ann stared at her, uncomprehending, that day came back to her.

  The day she’d scampered inside to ask Momma something, and the door to her bedroom was closed. Ruthie had opened it, without thinking, without knocking, to find a big naked man on top of Momma, choking her and making noises. Momma was moaning, saying please…begging for her life.

  Ruth Ann had stood, rooted to the spot, for too long. Paralyzed by the sight of the biggest, ugliest white butt she’d ever seen and just below the dark, evil crack of i
t, the Thing—like a plucked chicken neck—ramming into her mother. Horrible, the scene. Something out of a nightmare. Something cooked up by the Devil straight out of Hell.

  Ruth Ann instinctively covered her eyes. Then she’d spun and run…to find help. Wally was nowhere to be found, long since gone; Bonnie was standing in her crib on the front porch, clinging to the bars and howling.

  Ruth Ann had run all the way down the packed-dirt drive to the road and, still screaming, flagged down a neighbor taking his turnips to market. Mr. Petrie! Mr. Petrie! Come quick! A man is killing Momma! Oh, please, come quick. He’s killing her.

  Mr. Petrie done turned his horse and cart right into the drive, grabbed his shotgun from behind the seat and gone scramblin’ into the house, hollerin’ and wavin’ the gun, while Ruth Ann grabbed little Bonnie off the porch and hid, hyperventilating, behind old Petrie’s cart.

  Prolonged cussing and growling came from the house. But no shots.

  Please get the bad man. Please don’t let Momma die…

  Ruth Ann got tiny Bonnie quieted down and tried not to think about what was going on inside the house. She waited, heart in her throat, for what seemed like ages.

  She stared at the turnips; at their pale, exposed bodies, their gangly, hairy little root-beards and their bright green shoots. The ones that gave ’em away and got ’em yanked, naked, out from the ground.

  The turnips stared back at her, smudged and white. Embarrassed, judging by their purple-stained cheeks. They lay all topsy-turvy, sprawled and helpless to avoid bein’ dragged off to be boiled and sliced and chewed on by people.

  Ruth Ann heard the springs of the back door creak, and then it snapped shut. Heavy boot steps stomped across the porch. Something or someone rustled through the fields behind the small barn out back.

  And then Old Petrie threw open the front door and slammed it closed behind him. His gun pointed down at the ground and his face was as red-purple as pickled beets. The hand not holding the gun was opening and closing again into a fist.

  Ruth Ann sprinted toward Petrie. “Momma? Is my momma aw right?”

  He nodded, dragging a big rough paw down his face. “Your momma is just fine.”

  “But—”

  “She’s fine, Ruth Ann.”

  Ruth Ann stared at him, uncomprehending. “But where is the bad man? Did you chase him out the back door? Can we still git him? Where’s my momma?”

  Old Petrie’s eyes got all hard and squinty; his mouth screwed up like a wad of chewing gum. He looked like he’d just got a whiff of dead carcass. “Your ma’s inside, gettin’ dr—uh, gettin’ herself together. What—how much did you see, Ruth Ann?”

  What she’d seen was horrible, disgusting, awful beyond awful. She didn’t even want to think about it, ever again. But she knew she needed to tell the truth and nothin’ but the truth. She swallowed the icky, sick feeling creeping up her throat. “I saw that man’s big, white, pimply, hairy butt. And, and, and I saw a ugly chicken neck thing—”

  Mr. Petrie stuck his palm out. “That’s enough.”

  “He was on top of my ma, and he was doin’ somethin’ real bad to her!”

  “Yes, indeed he was,” said Mr. Petrie, who’d gotten—not that it seemed possible—even more beety in the face. “Little darlin’, let’s you and me and tiny Bonnie there take a ride with my turnips.”

  Ride? Why? “But my momma—the man—what if he comes back?”

  “He ain’t comin’ back.”

  “How do you know he won’t?”

  “I just know. I tole him if he did, he was gonna get his dirty, horny head blowed off. I ain’t puttin’ up with this filth around here.”

  “He had horns? I didn’t see no horns. Is he the Devil?”

  Mr. Petrie dragged his hand down his face again. He seemed to need a moment to get his thoughts together. “Let’s get you and little Bonnie up onto the seat, here. C’mon. I’ll give you a boost.”

  “Where are we goin’?”

  “We’re going into town to meet the constable.”

  Constable. Sounded like a cross between constipated and able. Ready, willin’, an’ able to swallow castor oil? “Who’s that?”

  “He’s a very nice gentleman who has your best interests at heart, darlin’. You don’t need to be afraid of him. You just tell him what you tol’ me. Well, ’cept no need to mention that, uh, chicken neck thing. That ain’t really talk for decent folk.”

  She was indecent? “Sorry, Mr. Petrie.”

  His lips quivered. “That’s aw right.”

  Bonnie began to fuss again in Ruth Ann’s arms. She rocked her, trying to soothe her. And the familiar lullaby came right out of her mouth.

  Hush little baby, don’t you cry

  Ruthie’s gonna sing you a lullaby

  An’ if that song, it don’t get heard,

  Ruthie’s gonna buy you a mockin’bird…

  Beside her, Mr. Petrie blew out a breath, just like the one his horse did as he shook the reins and got the cranky animal to rumble the cart forward again.

  And if that mockin’bird don’t sing,

  You don’t worry about no-thing…

  Ruth Ann broke off when she glimpsed Mr. Petrie’s grim expression. “Did I do somethin’ wrong? Are you mad, Mr. Petrie? You mad at me?”

  “Lord, no, Ruth Ann. You done everything right. You done saved your momma. You gonna talk to the constable, and I am gonna talk to the priest. And we are gonna keep on savin’ Sheila Riley, just in case she needs a little extra help, okeydokey? You done the right thing. It’s all gonna be just fine, sweetpea.”

  She’d thought Mr. Petrie was such a nice old man.

  But he was a big ol’ lyin’ sack of root-beard turnips, that’s what Mr. Petrie was.

  The constable was indeed a right fine gentleman. He got his wife to look after Bonnie and give her a bath and some porridge while he took Ruth Ann into his study to have a chat with her. That’s what he called it: a chat.

  They had a chat with his cat and his hat.

  The fancy hat that said he was Somebody Important sat high on a hook near the door, and his long black coat hung under it.

  The cat was curled up on the hearth, warming its backside near the fire. Ruth Ann didn’t know anybody who kept a cat inside the house. Cats were supposed to live outside or in barns, catching mice. “What’s his name?” she asked the constable, who didn’t look at all constipated. He did look able, though. Tall and lean and bespectacled, dressed in a snowy-white, starched shirt. It matched his snowy white hair.

  He chuckled. “His name is Justice.”

  He had to be kidding around. The cats she knew were called Snowball, or Tiger, or Hoss. Justice?

  The black-and-white cat squinted lazily at Ruth Ann through demonic yellow eyes and then yawned, exposing the inside of an unexpectedly cavernous cat-snout, carpeted in pink and rimmed with dozens of sharp, white, nasty teeth. The animal seemed bored, unimpressed by her presence.

  She usually liked animals. Ruth Ann didn’t like Justice one bit. She also didn’t care for the way he licked every inch of his body while she told her story yet again to the constable—omitting the big hairy butt and so on, of course. She wanted to be decent, after all.

  He asked a few questions that didn’t seem to have anything to do with anything, but then adults were nosy and oftentimes not as smart as they thought they were. Every kid knew that. It was why they had to be treated with extra respect and called “Mister” and “Missus” and “Miss.” And “sir” and “ma’am.” So’s they wouldn’t get upset and catch on that the kids were aware of their tricks and their pretenses of knowin’ it all.

  So when the constable asked her if she had a lot of uncles, she said no, sir. And when he asked her if Momma took in as much washing and mending as she done used to, she said no, sir. And when he asked her did Momma make stuff in the bathtub that smelled like turpentine, she said beg pardon, sir, but it smelled more like paint thinner.

  When the constable asked her i
f her and Bonnie and Momma had enough food to eat, she said mostly, sir. But when they didn’t, one of Momma’s friends would come over for a spell.

  The constable got a mighty peculiar look on his face when she said that. He asked were they gentlemen friends?

  Ruth Ann told him exactly what she thought: no, sir. They hardly seemed like gentlemen. They didn’t have nice, snowy-white shirts like his own or wear polished shoes. They didn’t seem like they bathed much. They were rough.

  And did they have supper with the family? Or were they there for private business?

  No, sir—she was right glad they never stayed for supper. Momma told her to go take Bonnie somewhere’s else while they had adult conversation. And she wasn’t to interrupt. Or come back to the house until Momma called.

  The constable looked down and made some notes with his fancy pen. Then he asked where she, Bonnie and Momma bathed if there was smelly paint-thinner stuff in the bathtub? So she came right out with the truth: they used the water pump outside, and yes, sir, it was freezing cold in the winter.

  The last strange questions the constable asked her were about Momma’s housekeeping and were there any vermin? And also about whether Momma drank the stinky stuff in the bathtub—yes, sir, sometimes she did. And whether she talked or walked funny after she drank it?

  Well, sir. Ruth Ann didn’t like talkin’ trash about Momma.

  The constable said it was just fine, that he was gonna help her. Help her and little Bonnie, too. So Ruth Ann ’fessed up that yes, after drinkin’ that stuff, Momma did talk like a reaaaally slowed-down gramophone recording. And she swayed back and forth and had to hang on to the furniture to get herself off to bed.

  The constable thanked her very much and told Ruth Ann that she was a good girl.

  She smiled at him, and he gave her a sweet that she divided in half and let Bonnie suck on part of, long as she held it tight between her thumb and forefinger, so the little girl wouldn’t get it stuck in her throat and choke.

  After that, she sat by herself in the constable’s study, watching Justice lick its paws, then its belly all over, and then some right nasty parts.