by Dana Mentink
She was too far away to hear, or maybe too angry to turn around.
His gut told him Bobby should stay away from Ethan Ping. A stab of conscience made him wonder if it really was his gut. Or his heart.
Chapter Eight
Ruth’s camera was cold in her hands as she took pictures of the sunrise over the wild Pacific. She told herself the extra money from the sale of the postcard photos would help with the ever-growing list of baby essentials. She was rationalizing, of course.
“What kind of mother is afraid to be around her own son? Lord, what kind of a mother will I be to this new child?” She whispered her prayer to the wind. The baby kicked, a fluttery butterfly feeling.
The minutes of this pregnancy ticked away in a blur. Was she really almost forty-eight and pregnant? Would she love the baby as she loved Bryce? Would it turn out the way it had with him? Monk would be there, by her side, but she knew from painful experience that nothing in life is a given.
Bryce was finding that out the hard way after losing his baby, his wife, and his job in the space of a year. He wasn’t used to losing. She’d tried so hard to prevent him from feeling that sting as a child, she wasn’t sure he would be able to weather it now.
The wind whipped her hair around into a frizzy ball. Through her camera lens the steel gray ocean was choppy, restless. A figure came into view along the cliff line. She could just make out the angular face of Dr. Soloski. His head was bent, shoulders hunched. She considered calling out to him, but the man was absorbed in his own thoughts, as engrossing as her own. He looked tired, perhaps from running away from Ellen Foots.
Her stomach rumbled, and she was suddenly ravenous. It was a cruel trick, as she knew the hunger would be replaced by morning sickness in a few hours. Morning sickness. What a misnomer. If it was confined to the morning hours she’d count herself lucky. In the past few months she hadn’t dared leave home without an airsick bag in each pocket.
For the moment, she turned her thoughts to food. Her mind traveled back to Indigo Orson’s cramped handwritten scrawls, and she picked up the binder she’d brought along, to read the next passage.
These men ate poorly, scavenging whatever they could and trying to turn it into something, anything edible, until God tossed me onto their shores. They told me of a cactus stew they had tried to make after a traveler traded them some for fresh water. Not a one of them gave a thought to removing the prickles before they boiled it. The traveler gave them dried tortoise, too. Most had never seen a tortoise, alive or dead, but that did not stop them from eating every speck of it.
It reminded me of the strange animals Señor Orson told of when he returned from Australia before our disastrous voyage on the Triton. If there were kangaroos in California, they would be hopping for their lives to escape the stew pot.
Mostly the men were used to beans and more beans, seasoned with only a bit of salt, so anything different was a joy to them. Once Old Severus brought me six abalone he’d pried off the rocks with an iron bar. What a sweet delight they made, fried up with a pat of butter.
With my precious remaining treasure, I baked a dozen biscuits and sold them. I earned enough to buy more flour, some dried chilies, and salt pork and a set of tin plates. There was a quantity of wild onion and garlic growing near our camp to which the men paid no mind, but I gathered as if it was manna. I even found a small patch of wild oregano, and happy I was to pick some, too. It will be a wonderful treat for the men to have their food with a dab of seasoning, though they would happily eat it plain.
They now regard me as a priceless addition to their camp and afford me whatever small luxuries they can, such as a bucket for hauling water and a woolen blanket. Patchy even provided me with a crude butter churn, though where he got it I shiver to consider. When I can lay my hands on some milk, the men will have their butter.
Before I finished soaking the beans and chilies they circled like hungry dogs.
“What is it?” a fellow by the name of Slack asked me. “Never mind,” he said. “Don’t care what it is. When can I eat it?”
By the time they returned from their long day at the river, the chili was done. At the risk of disclosing my gender, I made them wash their filthy hands before I served them.
It is an oddly exhilarating place here, in this wild land. The work is backbreaking, sure enough, but it’s my work, fashioned with my own hands, planned in my own mind and brought about by the sweat of my brow. For the first time in my life,
I am beholden to no one but myself and my God. I work to survive, sure enough, but I feel as though the compensation I receive goes beyond the coins I collect. I know these are heathen men, rough and hardened. Ah, but it does my heart good to see them fill their stomachs. Perhaps if I can ease the ferocious hunger which gnaws at their bellies, God can fill their souls and take away the gold fever that reduces them to animals.
As she closed the binder, Ruth was seized with an overwhelming desire to cook. The supremely elemental need to nourish another person filled her. If she couldn’t talk to Bryce, at least she could feed him. She stretched the light sweater over her belly and headed to town enjoying the sights and smells of early summer.
She stopped at Puzan’s Grocery and filled her basket with onion, chili, sausage, and a bunch of Royland Lemmon’s gorgeous herbs. She held the fragrant bunch of thyme to her nose and breathed in the smell of greenery and, she imagined, sorrow.
Though she knew it wasn’t her fault Royland’s son was a murderer, she had definitely had a hand in solving the crime, and it pained her to see the look of defeat in Royland’s face since his child went to prison. She insisted on delivering the farmer’s worm order personally once a month, and staying awhile on his farm to chat. She knew she would never think of Royland without feeling that odd mixture of pity and guilt.
As she shifted the binder of Indigo’s writings to pull the grocery money out of her pocket, a slip of paper floated to the floor. The small blue note was cryptic: P.max. 468c/470c. With a confused frown, she pocketed the paper and headed home.
Monk waited in the kitchen with a cup of tea already steeping. After kissing her on her lips and both cheeks, he put out a roast beef sandwich for himself and a grilled cheese for her.
“I thought you’d be busy at the shop.”
“Bobby’s handling things for a while.” His forehead creased. “Is something going on with her? She seems awfully quiet. Said she’s going diving with that Ethan fellow after lunch.”
“Ethan? I didn’t know she knew him. I wonder what Jack thinks about that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I can imagine what he thinks. Ethan better not break any laws while he’s in town, or he’ll be thrown in the slammer with a life sentence.”
They laughed.
“I hope they work things out,” Ruth said. “They are good for each other.”
“Just like us.” Monk toasted her with a root beer. “I’ve been so busy since I got back we haven’t talked much. So how are you doing, honey? With the baby and. . .everything?”
She took a deep breath and, seeing the sympathetic look on his kind face, burst into a shower of tears. He came around in front of her and squeezed her gently.
“What is it, Ruthy? What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” she wailed. “I’m fat and sick, and I didn’t do a good job mothering the first time and I’m way too old to learn how to parent now.”
He patted her back, her tears soaking his shirt front. “You are a good mother and you’ll be a good mother to Junior, too. You’re just going through a patch of worry now. The hormones aren’t helping, I’ll bet.”
“But, Monk,” she said, pulling away. “Bryce didn’t want to be around me, ever. He always wanted to do things himself, and if he couldn’t do something he asked Philip for help. I think I tried to do too much for him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I smothered him, spoiled him, and he’s paying the price for it now.”
Monk tipped her face to his and patted her tears away with
a napkin. “Ruthy, there’s one very important thing you’re forgetting.”
“What?”
“Where did he go when his life fell apart?”
She blinked. “He, he came—”
“Home to you,” he finished.
She fed the worms their vegetable peelings and sprinkled the beds with a layer of hay. As usual, the gulls jostled around, their beaks poking into the dark soil, the fanning of their wings creating a breeze on her legs.
“No, you don’t, Rutherford.” She pushed him away, then sidestepped the eager Grover. “Here’s your lunch.” She tossed cubes of stale bread and bits of apples to the feathery swarm. Their loud squawks filled the cool afternoon air with discordant music. She couldn’t help but smile at the greedy horde. The sight always brought back a fond memory of Phillip. For a long time, she’d pushed the memories away, but now she savored them, like looking at old photos in a scrapbook.
A laugh made her turn.
“Those are the strangest pets,” Bryce said, arms folded across his chest. “Most people would choose a dog or cat.”
“They are strange companions. They don’t heel, they can’t fetch, and only Martha comes when called. Weird is an understatement, but your father chose them for us, so that’s that.”
He nodded. “I was on my way to the beach and I ran into that blond lady, the filmmaker. What’s her name?”
“Sandra Marconi.”
“That’s the one. She said she needs to talk to you. She’ll come by later.”
“I wonder what that’s all about.” Absently she fingered the paper in her pocket and pulled it out. “Bryce, does this note mean anything to you?”
He frowned at the scrap. “No. Not really. Looks like some kind of foreign language. Where did you get it?”
“I found it in the notebook Sandra gave me.”
“Oh. Maybe she can tell you then.” They lapsed into silence. Bryce shifted from one foot to the other, dark eyes fixed on the swarming birds as they finished up their meal.
“Who was that other lady? The one with the cap that came for worms last night?”
“Her name is Roxie Trotter. Why?”
“No particular reason. She looks familiar to me, but
I don’t know where from.” He watched the birds bob and weave across the yard.
Ruth wondered as she looked at Bryce’s thin face. Who was this grown man? What were his passions and dreams? He might be a total stranger who wandered in off the street, for all she knew about him. She wanted to talk, to free them from the distance that yawned between them, but she couldn’t think of a way to do it.
Ruth brushed off her hands. She spoke before she had a chance to think about the logic of her plan. “I’m going to make chili.”
Bryce raised an eyebrow. “Really? I figured spicy food would make you sick. Roslyn always had heartburn. I used to keep a roll of antacids in every jacket I owned so she’d have some when she needed them.”
Her heart ached to see the flitter of pain on his face. “It does and it will, but for now, I’m making chili.”
“Okay.” He trailed behind her into the kitchen. “Maybe I could give you a hand.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she fought to keep her voice level as they entered the kitchen. “That would be great. Can you get out my chili pot from down there? Bending over makes my head spin like a top.” Without a word he pulled the pot from the low cupboard. She handed him the dry beans. He sat at the table, his head bent, sorting them into precise piles and removing the occasional stone, like a miser poring over gold pieces.
She chopped an onion and peeled the garlic.
Bryce poured his sorted beans back into the pot and added water. It was quiet for a while except for the sound of her knife on the cutting board. Bryce retrieved the herbs from the fridge.
“Remember earthquake cake?”
She started, her mouth open in a momentary O of surprise. “Earthquake cake? That awful chocolate thing we spackled together with frosting for Dad’s birthday?”
“Yeah. Dad said it was the best cake he ever had.”
Against all reason, her eyes filled. Bryce remembered earthquake cake. “He would say that about every cake we ever made.”
“Yeah. He was a natural-born optimist.” Bryce fingered the leathery skin of the chilies. “I miss him.”
“I miss him, too.”
“Do you. . .ever visit his grave?”
“Of course, honey, often. Monk and I go together every now and then. We pray and leave flowers. Sometimes I take the birds. I think your father would have liked that.”
“I think you’re right.”
Bryce’s cell phone rang, and he went in the other room to answer it.
Ruth tried not to listen. His comments were short. The sound of the bubbling pot did not quite drown out the angry cadence of his words.
When he returned, his brow was furrowed, and he looked much older than he had a moment before. “Roslyn needs me to sign some papers so we can put the house on the market.”
“Oh, I see. That’s. . .sad. Isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Might as well sell it. It’s not my home anymore. I need some air. I’m going for a walk.”
Ruth watched him through the kitchen window as he left the house, studying the flagstone path beneath his feet as he headed to the street.
She looked around at her own small house, the scratched tile counter, the smooth wooden floor, drapes that fluttered in the breeze from the open window. Those walls had been home to two husbands and a little boy at one point. Sweet little Cootchie had listened to her read many a story here. Soon it would be home to another child. Through all the heartbreak of losing Phillip, and the struggle with Bryce, it had never stopped being home to her.
“How very blessed I am, Lord. Thank You for reminding me.”
She made sure the beans were simmering, starting the process to fill their bellies, praying that God would fill Bryce’s soul. As she hummed a tune, marveling that the scent of onions and garlic hadn’t sent her stomach on a roller-coaster ride, Ruth didn’t notice the small clink as her wedding ring slipped off the counter and into the sink. She started the disposal, and the horrible clanking noise made her slam off the switch.
She fished around in the drain and came up with the object.
The plain gold band was twisted and scarred.
With trembling fingers she held the band to her chest and cried.
An hour later Ruth ushered Sandra into the kitchen in the late afternoon. The fragrance of cooking chili filled every nook and cranny of the house.
“That smells wonderful,” Sandra said.
“Thank you. I was inspired by Indigo Orson, only she made hers without the benefit of a sink or cutting boards. The miners didn’t seem to mind.”
Sandra laughed, making her eyes sparkle. “She was an amazing woman.”
Ruth gestured for Sandra to sit. “How did you learn of her?”
“I was doing some research on steamships, and I came across her name on a passenger list. I was lucky enough to find her journal buried in the archives. It was a miracle really. The papers were mixed in with a pile of receipts and such, ready to be disposed of.”
“Are you a history major then?”
Her face broke into a wide smile. “Not anymore, but I sure miss it. I love everything about it, the thrill of finding a new connection between the past and the present, poring over old maps. I even love the musty smell of old books. I’m a history geek for sure.”
Ruth laughed. “You’ll have to go visit Ellen Foots, our librarian. She’s ferocious about her passion for research materials. I think she was a history major, too.”
“Actually, when the project is done, I’m going to switch gears and work on a master’s in business.”
“Really? Why?”
Sandra tugged on a strand of her white blond hair. “Sadly, I learned that you really can’t pay the bills too effectively with a history degree. I’ve had to look for other mea
ns. I’ve done everything from flipping burgers to stocking shelves.” She flexed her knee. “I tore my ACL last year, and the surgery for that cost me a bundle, let me tell you. My surgeon sends me little pink notes every month reminding me I’m not finished paying for my bionic knee. They’re not valentines, I can tell you.”
“Was the surgery a success?”
She sighed, rubbing her knee thoughtfully. “I guess, but the body never really does recover from some things.”
Ruth remembered the stretch marks that snaked like snail trails over her protruding belly after Bryce was born. What permanent marks would this later-in-life baby leave on her body? “I’m afraid you’re right about that.”
“Are you feeling okay? Is the pregnancy going okay and everything?” Sandra looked uneasy. “Oh, maybe that’s too personal to ask. I’m sorry if I was rude.”
“Not at all. I’m the topic of conversation at dinner tables all over Finny. As far as I can tell, everything is right on track,” Ruth said. “I’ve got one of those big appointments coming up, the pregnancy milestones that make you stay up at night and worry.”
Her smile was sympathetic. “I’ve never been pregnant, but I’ve had plenty of those nights, especially lately.” Sandra glanced at her watch. “The reason I stopped by is I need the binder, with Indigo’s notes.”
“Oh, really? Are we going to quit filming?”
“No, no. In fact, we need to speed things up. The long-range weather gurus are forecasting a storm by week’s end. I need to, um, make some notes. I’ll give it back tomorrow. I promise.” She held up three fingers in a Girl Scout salute.
“Sure. I’ll go get it.” Ruth passed the nursery on her way down the hall, wondering for the umpteenth time if it should be blue or pink. The day before, she’d decided on the palest of yellows, but that was yesterday. Maybe she should just ask the doctor and get it over with. Maybe it would help to make it all more real, somehow.
She retrieved the binder and remembered the cryptic piece of paper. On impulse, she jotted down the numbers on a pad before she replaced the note among other pages and returned to the kitchen.