Saving Ruby King

by Catherine Adel West

  “Now, tell me about something nice today,” she says.

  I’m trying to think of something, anything to put a smile on her face and mine. I hate my job. I hate my father. But I want to tell her something nice.

  “They have dance classes starting up at the new community center, in a month or so,” I offer.

  “That’s nice. How much are they?”

  “Ummm, I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, well I mean we can figure it out. If you can still help around here, I don’t see why you can’t go. We’ll of course have to ask your father.”

  “Why does it matter what Lebanon thinks?”

  “Don’t refer to your father by his first name!”

  “He’s not a father! He’s not a husband! He’s the thing that makes everything ugly like him.”

  “We’re all he has, do you know that? You don’t walk away from that, from the responsibility of someone needing you. People have hurt him and let him down his whole life. Even his mother...she...she...” Mom searches for words, some improbable sentence that’ll help her explain why Lebanon is the way he is, and why she stays, and because of her, why I stay.

  Mom sighs. “I know your father in a way no one else does, and somewhere deep down he loved me once, he still does. What he does is...it’s more than bones and bruises, and the world can be so unkind to people, relentless, especially to men like him, to people like us. And those few times when it gets to be too much, he loses himself a little. But I find him, and he comes back or at least he used to, and maybe I can do that again. One more time.”

  “And...what if you can’t, Momma? What if he kills you? You want to live like this forever? You want me to stay in this house, at a job I hate, and help you pay bills he can’t? Never do anything with my life?”

  “He’s not a perfect person, but you can’t blame him for everything wrong with you.”

  “You’re right. I can blame you, too.”

  There is a silence now, one held in the walls and floorboards. A silence that screams. Water spills from Mom’s eyes and I’m being pulled further and further from her. I have this sticky feeling of being both right and cruel. I become Him, Lebanon, my father. The lashes of my words and the soft pleasure I find in my mother’s tears bind me to him. In this fractured moment, I resemble the person I hate the most—yes, this is a sticky feeling. Guilt and vindication and fear cling to me.

  Mom hugs me hard, like Grandma Naomi. She and I are in this together; us against him, and I don’t want Mom thinking I really blame her for everything that’s happened in my life. I do own some part of my situation. I can leave, but I can’t leave her with him. I couldn’t be happy like that. So, if I can’t be happy as a party of one, I’ll be miserable as a party of two.

  “Look, I’m not good at talking. Why don’t I watch you work on this quilt? After, I can make us some blackened catfish. You like that, right?”

  “Okay, baby.” Mom dabs away the last of the tears leaking from her eyes, then sniffs, the phlegmy sound filling the quiet around the rest of my choked-on words, the ones I will never share with her.

  “You know I love you, Ruby.”

  “I know.”

  Watching her work on the quilt, the metallic melody of the sewing machine fills the still air. The white bench in her room looks out onto the street. It digs into my flesh like the top stair of Grandma Naomi’s porch. I don’t move or adjust my position. I stay with the pain, and Mom begins humming the song once more.

  Ask the Savior to help you. Comfort, strengthen and keep you; He is willing to aid you; He will carry you through.

  LAYLA

  My mind constantly replays Ruby walking out of the café door. The tinkling of the bell. And me still sitting with a cup of coffee in front of me. A cup of coffee and no friend.

  Pulsing beats greet my ears as I open the door leading into the vestibule of the house. Two overstuffed ivory couches, dark cherry end tables and a longer cocktail table expertly arranged by my mom who has a knack for complementary colors.

  As I walk past the kitchen, J.P. stands in his room ironing a blue-collared shirt and black jeans. I know why his shirts are so wrinkly all the time. The iron barely touches them. His full lips are too busy mouthing a song. The complexion of a melted Hershey bar and a baritone voice that fills a room much the way my father’s does, but without the pretention or ceremony. His toothpick legs bounce up and down to the beat somehow supporting his almost seven-foot frame and muscles hardened by manual labor during night shifts at the post office.

  “I thought you were gonna be asleep,” I shout over the music.

  J.P. turns down the volume. “Grandma Violet called from the church. I’m picking her up and bringing her back to the house. You’re early though. Thought you’d be home later,” he says.

  “I had some stuff to do so I didn’t go to the other service.”

  J.P. turns his head and looks at me. His eyes, a darker shade of cinnamon than my father’s, make some unspoken judgment about my words.

  He makes a sound between a chuckle and a snort, “How’d that go over with the old man?”

  “It didn’t. But I don’t care.”

  “You do. You’re just frontin’ with me right now. You care.”

  Unlike me, J.P. isn’t fooling himself. He’s not trying to shield his emotions like I am. He really doesn’t give a shit about dad being angry at him. J.P.’s free enough to let things fall off him like a set of oversized clothes. I move to leave. But before I leave his doorway, J.P. says, “You went to see Ruby, didn’t you?”

  I say nothing. I don’t want to break a confidence, but when I turn around, I don’t look him in the eyes which is as good as saying yes and confessing every detail of my uneasy conversation in the coffee shop.

  “You always look—” he pauses to find the right words “—a little less after you see her.”

  “A little less what?”

  “Everything. You look tired. Defeated. Sad. You look sad as hell, sis.”

  I feel how my shoulders slump forward and all I want to do right now is sleep, but at this point I’m afraid I’ll have dreams of what I fear for Ruby.

  “When will you be finished working on the painting?”

  J.P. smiles and points to the corner. “I’m gonna work on the detailing of the background before I move on to finish the rest. It should take me a few more days.”

  An easel next to his bed holds an incomplete landscape, a waterfall and a dense meadow, wildflower carpets and birds circling the sky. There is a man in the middle of the painting and he gazes at the unfinished horizon of the canvas.

  “It looks good so far,” I say.

  “How much do you think I’ll get for it?”

  “I’m my brother’s keeper, not my brother’s art dealer.”

  J.P. laughs and claps his massive black paws two times. Another rapper comes on the radio with a new song, a serenade on the world’s beauty, a caution about its seductive, harsh nature on a disenfranchised people. A million lyrical metaphors say the same thing, again and again.

  I walk into my small room with one window facing a timeworn tree. Did I make a mistake letting Ruby leave that coffee shop without me? Is Ruby going to hurt herself? What do I do?

  When I crave peace, I go into my closet. Really, that’s what I do. I place a folded towel at the bottom of the door to block out the remaining strip of light. I pray.

  God, there are a lot of things I can’t see. I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix this or if I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I have to help Ruby so please Lord, help me do that. Please.

  I wait. Not for a hand on a wall or a burning bush that talks. If I saw those things, I’d freak the hell out and run yelling from my home. But I need a sign, something to tell me what to do.

  It’s been at least ten minutes and nothing. Leaning agai
nst the wall, I slide down and my bottom hits the floor. Part of a heel wedges itself uncomfortably underneath my backside. I place it to the side and yawn.

  Not to rush you, God, but what am I supposed to do? I kinda need an answer now.

  I wait some more.

  J.P.’s music no longer plays. I hear the front door close. I feel foolish. Maybe I just need to rest.

  * * *

  I hear murmurs at first. I can’t make out the words. They break and crash on the edges of my consciousness. I open my eyes. I’m lying in a valley of downy grass. I look to my left and behold three rolling hills of lilies and gardenias and sunflowers, and blossoms that have no business being in the same place but are so pretty bunched and mingled together. The valley is green and blue and bright. The sun softens in saffron shades and golden light warms my skin. I’m dressed in a long white calico dress, but it’s not any shade of white with which I’m familiar. It’s pure and pretty and I’m happy. Grass rises up to meet my fingers and I walk up the second hill to a tall oak tree. Branches twist and bend. All the leaves are alive and a light, not coming from the sun, surrounds the tree and I see Three Women. There is such peace on their faces. One of them takes my hand and whispers. I try to hear her but can’t. I want to hold on to her hand longer, but her fingers loosen from mine and her hand gently pulls away. She caresses my face and walks back to the other two women and stands in the middle. I focus on their beauty. It’s not the kind of beauty on which one gauges attractiveness. It’s a beauty beyond physical features and proportions. I feel I know all of them but they have no names. I want to ask who they are but can’t form words. The Three Women look to the right, the day’s glow is swallowed by slate skies, and I hear thunder and see hot, pulsing curtains of lightning slamming into the ground in restless and violent intervals. The wind whips my white calico dress around my knees. I see the woman in the middle mouth a word once more. I reach out...

  * * *

  The walls of the closet surround me again and my arm is still extended in the darkness of my space. My eyes are adjusting again, but I don’t feel comforted by the stillness. The light musty smell of worn shoes lingers. I’m left with my thoughts, the sound of my breathing and the one word the woman in the middle repeated to me in the green valley over and over: Go!

  I race outside to the Black Stallion and it won’t start. I take deep breaths, meditate, pray, beg, turn the key in the ignition. Metal grinds against metal, a stuttering, piercing whir murders the quiet of the neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon. It just sits, a rusting piece of motorized aluminum. Smoke seeps from under the hood; a toxic smell of burnt rubber and motor oil float in the atmosphere and now in addition to letting down my friend, I’m also contributing to global warming.

  Damn it!

  If this were a movie, after a couple of tries, the car would magically come to life and I’d drive off into a rust-colored sunset to save Ruby. But in this life, I now have to abandon my smoking car, pump my mighty thighs and run three blocks to the bus stop.

  In that closet, in that vision, once I heard the word Go! I knew it was God.

  Ruby is too precious and we’re too close for me to do nothing. I’ll make her see what I see. I’ll make her see how she can have a life, a new life away from Lebanon.

  Not on a bathroom floor. Not with me saying goodbye to a friend in a casket like Momma had to. This story is ending a different way. With her and me. With marriages. With our kids getting on our damn nerves. This ends with phone calls and laughter and barbeques. Maybe even with our families coming back together. With grandkids and us complaining about how everything is too expensive now. This ends for us as old women rocking in porch chairs, hot days with cold sweet tea.

  But for a happy ending, I need to find Ruby. I need her to see our future, the possibility of it.

  I need Ruby to see how this, our story ends.

  With both of us. Together.

  CALVARY

  September 23, 1960

  Sara tries to make no sound as she enters her father’s office. Where would he hide her doll, Louisa? So busy figuring out her plan to escape, she almost forgot the one thing she loves most. Blue-black shadows hover in parts of the room where the luminescent fingers of streetlamps do not reach.

  Light suddenly floods the office and Sara racks her brain of any and all plausible lies to tell her father why she’s in his office. Turning around she finds only Naomi.

  If she’s here, King Saul can’t be far behind; she’s already taken up too much time. Seeing her panic, Naomi tries to put her friend at ease. “He was in the back of the church locking up. He didn’t see you.”

  Sara exhales, but that doesn’t stop the nausea making waves in her belly. “How didn’t he see you?”

  “I’m small. No one ever sees me. It’s a blessing now, I guess. You’re supposed to be gone already,” scolds Naomi.

  “I left Louisa. I have to get her.” She walks to the bookshelf across from his desk. There’s a wooden box on the second row where King Saul hides a small bottle of whiskey among the books. Sometimes Sara takes a small sip or two of the whiskey. It helps her with memories, making them less defined and sharp.

  “It’s just a doll. This is your life. Please let’s just go. He hasn’t locked the back door yet.” Naomi’s voice barely whispering, afraid of her words, afraid they might somehow reach King Saul.

  “It’s all I have from my mom, the only thing he can’t touch, the only thing that’s truly mine.”

  The stark brown-black of Sara’s eyes betray her desperation and pierce Naomi. Naomi knows she will help her friend. She always has. She always will.

  Forever and to the end.

  God will give them the strength to get through this. God will protect them.

  Sara blindly grabs at the air under her father’s desk and her hands grasp a few strands of yarn and smiling she grabs Louisa. If she concentrates, she can smell her mom, Sophia, remember her pretty golden-brown eyes, and find a small bit of happiness. Rising, Sara’s shoulder bumps the leg of the desk and a key taped underneath falls to the floor.

  “We gotta go, now!” Naomi pleads.

  Sara picks up the key, staring at the locked drawer right in her line of sight. Unlocking the drawer, she finds an envelope, thick with what is no doubt money, neatly tucked, lying on top of papers and pens and other junk. The proceeds of the offerings taken earlier that evening. King Saul wasn’t good at hiding things from her. You can’t hide things from someone who knows all the ugly of you. She can’t hide things from Violet and Naomi, and King Saul can’t hide things from her.

  Naomi widens her eyes as Sara removes the money from the envelope, a little more than $380, enough to at least get a better footing in Tennessee, but not enough to pay for those nights and her tears and her fear, not enough to sweep away the detritus or mend her life until this point.

  Sara steadies herself and carefully steps from behind the desk to grab her purse on the worn emerald green couch against the opposite wall next to a cheap pine table, a pane of glass sporting a crack which spreads diagonally from one end to the other.

  Sara hears the creak of the old door before watching her father walk through it.

  Full lips in a tight straight line, his husky voice behind clenched teeth. “What the fuck you think you doing, little girl?”

  People look so hard on Saul’s appearance, no one sees the monster underneath. She thinks her mother, Sophia, saw the monster, and protected her even when she was dying. Sophia was the prettiest woman Sara had ever seen even when she was sick. Sara swore her Mom had golden eyes, such a bright brown they shined and shimmered when happy. Sophia kept Sara close, read books in funny voices, until she was so weak, Sara began reading to her. If Sara didn’t know how to pronounce the complicated syllables, she’d make it up as she went along, sometimes creating a whole new story. Those were the best books, where you came up with your own
ending, no matter what the words on the pages said. Eventually the adults didn’t let Sara read to her mom anymore. They spoke in hushed whispers about the illness, though no one said cancer out loud, as if the disease would spread if they spoke its name.

  Naomi steps forward. “Reverend, Sara and I just wanted...”

  “Shut the hell up!” he says.

  He turns to Sara. “I say again, whatchu doing, little girl?” His tone is suddenly calmer, more sinister, a rhythm to the question.

  Clutching Louisa and the envelope tight to her chest, Sara fibs, “I just needed my doll to make me feel better. That’s all, Daddy. That’s all.”

  “You needed my money to do that?”

  “I was going to put it back. I just wanted to double-count it to make sure it was all there for you.”

  “So sick as you supposed to be, you felt the need to find that key and count my money?”

  It was a stupid lie. Stupid. Stupid. She shouldn’t have lied.

  King Saul looms over Sara who stands only two inches shorter, but her lithe frame seems diminished compared to his strong stature.

  “Daddy,” she begins.

  “What do we say about liars, Sara?”

  Sara’s eyes dart behind King Saul and find Naomi. She motions her friend to leave, but Naomi stays.

  His finger sharply snapping her chin to meet his eyes, King Saul says again, “What do we say about liars?”

  “All liars shall have their part in the Lake of Fire,” Sara whispers.

  Sara knows this verse. It’s in Revelation. It’s about the End Times. Saul makes her repeat it often. The way he makes her say this verse isn’t word for word like the Bible. He whittled it down to a simple action and a compelling consequence.

  Sara steps back until she feels the desk behind her.

  “Please, Reverend Saul, we didn’t mean any harm...” Naomi says, trying to diffuse a situation over which they have no control.