by Connie Cook
Graham was dead. Her hopes for the two of them were dead. She was dead.
So this was what it felt like!
Death wasn't so bad, after all, if it was just this nothingness.
But the nothingness couldn't last. No, death didn't mean, couldn't mean, just ceasing to exist. That would be too easy.
"Did they call you to identify him?" Ruth asked. She didn't know why she'd asked that. Probably because she was curious. It was the only thing she felt in the midst of the nothingness.
That should have been my job. I'm still his wife, her inner voice said.
"No, he's been identified. Lily put in the missing person report, and she identified him when they found him." Mom's voice raised above a whisper to attain a hoarse croak.
The first sensation to replace the sensation of being nowhere and no one was the sensation of her blood being on fire. This was a familiar sensation. She knew this one by name. It was rage.
If Ruth had had Lily Turnbull right there, right then, she could have gladly pulled out her hair, clawed her face, spit at her. She wouldn't have killed her. Then Ruth would have had to pay for Lily Turnbull's crime. No, she would have hurt Lily in the ways that would have hurt Lily more than death. She would have maimed her beauty. Given Lily a disfiguring scar like her own.
If our faces tell tales on us in spite of ourselves, Lily's face, like the first murderer's, should bear the marks of what she'd done. It would be only justice.
Ruth knew then that the test she'd faced the morning after getting out of hospital – the choice to live or not to live, the choice to give in to bitterness or reject it – that choice had been only the dress rehearsal. That had been only the practice test, just preparation for this one. Here was the real thing.
Ruth said nothing to her mother-in-law. She offered no comfort. She couldn't. She had none to give.
She walked quietly, rollingly, as though on tiptoe to her bedroom. Then she shut and locked the door.
She'd have to come out eventually. But she couldn't come out while rage was surging through her veins and mastering her. She thought she might have to stay in her room until they carried her out, stiff and stinking.
Chapter 22
Doris Steiner, the postmistress, took Mrs. Turnbull's money and passed her the stamps but took her time making the change.
"You've heard about that young Graham MacKellum, haven't you, Edie?" Doris said.
"Yes, I've heard," Edith Turnbull said. A less determined gossip than Doris Steiner would have recognized the warning signals in the haughty lift of Mrs. Turnbull's head and the frost in her voice.
"Terrible business," Mrs. Steiner said. "I've heard he had some kind of an illness like his father. Depression, they call it; though I've been depressed lots of times. Never been tempted to do anything like that. No reason for it. Just pure selfishness, I say. No thought for anyone else. The Catholics say it's a mortal sin and one you can't be forgiven for. I heard they pulled him out of the ocean. Is that so?"
"I haven't really heard, Doris. I think you owe me some change."
Mrs. Steiner made the change absently and went on with her own train of thought.
"If that's so, I don't see how they can know it was suicide for sure. Unless he left a note. Do you know if he left a note?"
"I haven't heard. Good-day, Doris."
Mrs. Turnbull swept out the door in a tremendous hurry.
Lily was nearly knocked off the front step of the post office as the door opened much faster than was its usual wont.
"Mother!" she said dramatically.
"Lily," her mother said in the icily-regal tones of offended royalty.
"Where have you been? I've called and called on the telephone, and Florrie answers and tells me that no one's at home. I came around to the house three times yesterday evening, and every time Florrie told me everyone was out, but she wouldn't tell me where you were, and she wouldn't let me in. I had to sleep in the car last night."
"Being that it was a hot summer night, I don't imagine it hurt you in the slightest. You were in no danger of freezing."
"I finally managed to get it out of her today where you were, that you'd walked to the post office. Why won't you answer my phone calls? I'm your daughter, for pity's sake!"
"Lily, you're creating a scene. We're in the middle of main street for heaven's sake. This is neither the time nor the place," Mrs. Turnbull hissed at her.
"Well, I think this is the only time and the only place to talk to you when you won't answer the phone, and you won't let me into the house. I know Florrie was only acting on your orders. How else am I supposed to speak to you if not here?"
"Maybe it would be better if you didn't try to speak to me at all," Lily's mother said in a low voice but one that carried to the gathering audience who pretended to be window shopping or going about their business. Mother and daughter were half-in and half-out of the post office. Edith Turnbull had kept the door of the post office open until she could decide which direction would afford her the best route for flight – with the result that those inside the post office (including the postmistress with active ears and a tongue to match) and those outside the post office could all witness with equal ease the unfolding drama.
"Are you never going to speak to me again?" Lily's voice rose to a wail.
"Lily, would you stop? You're making yourself ridiculous."
"Mother! I'm your daughter. I need you. Can't you see I'm in trouble?"
"I can see that," Mrs. Turnbull said, her lips curling in righteous distaste, casting a look at Lily's expanding midsection. The gesture and the direction of her eyes were not lost on the watching crowd who then also noticed the change in Lily's condition.
"I didn't mean for it to happen. Any of it. It was a mistake. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Lily was sobbing into her hands and hysterical at this point. "Please let me come back home. I have nowhere else to go. We ran through all my money. Graham couldn't keep a job. We ended up flat broke and got kicked out of our apartment. I've been staying in a street mission for the past week. I can't go back there; I can't go back to Vancouver. I've got nowhere else to go. Please let me come home."
"Poor little Lily." Her mother's lip kept its curl. With pride and privacy as lost causes, the scene was in full swing, and Edie Turnbull entered into it heartily now, holding nothing back. "Your father tells me it was all my fault. That I was too soft on you. Well, that's all over. I'm finished being soft. Now that you've disgraced us and dragged the Turnbull name through the mud and mire, you think you can waltz back into town and all will be forgiven. You expected a fatted calf, I suppose. You won't find it that easy, my girl! You made your bed. It's time you learned to lie on it!"
Suddenly, from back by the mailboxes where she'd been checking for "Help Wanted" signs on the notice board, where no one had spied her in the excitement of watching the first reunion between mother and daughter, out flew a slim figure like an avenging fury.
"How can you?" Ruth cried.
A-ha! thought the breathless audience who certainly couldn't have complained about a lack of sensation so far but who were always eager for more titillation. Now we'll see some action.
"How can you?" Ruth said again, loudly enough for all the customers in the post office to hear as well as the people halfway down the street. Everyone stopped to watch the spectacle of Lily Turnbull getting her comeuppance from Ruth MacKellum.
But Ruth was speaking to Mrs. Turnbull.
"You admit you raised her to be what she is. Now that she's reaping the rewards of it, you turn her away? She's your daughter, for heaven's sake! And she needs you."
"She needs a home," Ruth continued. "Whatever she's done, and I should know what she's done if anyone has, you can't let her starve on the streets. She needs a home."
"She had one before she ran off and left it to disgrace her family. She should've thought of her home then," Mrs. Turnbull said coldly. The two women eyed each other, ignoring Lily for the moment. Ruth had fire in her eyes, but i
t couldn't melt the ice in the older woman's. Edie turned and left with her head high, refusing to look at anyone, gathering what was left of the tattered shreds of her dignity about her.
Then Ruth turned to Lily.
"C'mon. Let's get you out of here. You can come home with me for now," she said. Lily didn't move, weeping openly but soundlessly, her face distorted into deformity like a crying child's.
"Come on," Ruth said again, leading her away with an arm around her, shielding her from the prying eyes.
* * *
Ruth was the type of person irresistibly drawn to need. You can call that character trait a flaw and a weakness, but personally, I don't imagine there's too much wrong with it. Not when it's also God's.
* * *
Mom was horrified when she heard that Ruth was bringing Lily home.
Ruth had dropped Lily off at her car and then had gone ahead of Lily to break the news to Mom.
"Ruth, you can't be serious! She can't stay here. That's flat."
"It's too late. It's done. I've already asked her, and she'll be here in a minute or two. She was following right behind me in her car. Maybe it was a stupid thing to do; I don't know. But I can't take back the invitation now. I'm sure it will only be for a day or two," Ruth said hopefully. She felt a terrible sinking at the thought of Lily and herself living under the same roof. Why did she let impulse and heedlessness run her into the most outlandish situations? Yet at the same time, in the moment it had seemed like the right, in fact, the only, thing to do – to tell Lily she could come home with her. Something (or Someone) inside of her wouldn't let her turn away from Lily's need.
"It's your house, of course. You have the right to ask anyone into it you choose. I know I shouldn't have any say in the matter," Mom said huffily.
"Mom! That's not true. It's our house. It's your house as much as it's mine. And I should have asked you what you thought about it before I did anything rash. But I did something rash, and now it's done, and at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. She was desperate. I couldn't just stand there and watch and her own mother turn her away and do nothing about it."
"She has other friends she could have gone to."
"I suspect she doesn't have. Or none that would take her in. If even her own parents wouldn't. I don't think Lily ever had much of a gift for making friends. True friends, I mean, who would help her when she's down."
"That's true enough. And why on earth it should be up to you, of all people, to help her ..."
"Why not me? Never mind. You don't have to answer that. But don't worry. I'm sure her parents will be shamed into taking her back once they see her living here. It won't be for more than a day or two, I can't imagine. Oh, here she is. Please, please, don't say anything to her. I'll go help her get her things in."
Mom gritted her teeth and seethed silently, watching Ruth carry all the heaviest bags while Lily took a small overnight case. It was plain to see how things were going to be all the time Lily was with them.
* * *
The "day or two" that Ruth had envisioned turned into a solid week and then into two.
"If she's going to stay," Mom said to Ruth out of Lily's hearing (she said almost nothing in Lily's hearing, especially to Lily), "she's got to go out and get a job. She can't lie around the house, being waited on hand and foot. You're not well enough to be working, and we have to have some sort of income with another mouth to feed. We can't live forever on the money from the sale of the land. I know you won't say anything to her about finding work, so I will."
"Mom, wait! What good would it do to tell her to get a job? What good would it do for her to look for work? I don't think she's ever had a job in her life. She's got no experience. And who would hire her now? In her condition?"
It was the first time Ruth had made mention to her mother-in-law of Lily's "condition" though it had been obvious to Mrs. MacKellum from the start. Mrs. MacKellum's reaction to Lily's pregnancy was violently mixed. On the one hand, the sight of Lily carrying Graham's child raised her ire against Lily to the point that she could hardly look in her direction without wanting to give her face a good, hard, ringing slap or toss her out on her ear. So far she had resisted both urges.
On the other hand, the sight of Lily carrying Graham's child was probably the reason she had resisted her urges. There was the child to think about. And it was Graham's child.
Her arms ached to hold Graham's child. A little piece of Graham.
In spite of all that her son had done (and he'd been no less guilty than Lily – perhaps more guilty; who could say?), his mother yearned with a dreadful yearning to have and to hold even a little piece of him.
"I'm perfectly fit," Ruth said. "Why do you think I'm not well enough to work? Nothing at all wrong with me now. If I could find something ... but if I can't even find work, small chance of Lily finding any. No, I'm afraid I'm the one who needs to get the job. But don't worry. Something will turn up. Things have a way of always working out. God will provide. 'Seek ye first,' and all that, right?”
* * *
And it was at church that next Sunday where Ruth received her inspiration.
It was Bo Weaver's dark head two pews in front of her, not Pastor Harper's admittedly uninspiring sermon, that caught her attention and held it during the sermon. Besides being Eddie Hoffstetter's manager at the apple packing shed, Bo acted as his foreman during apple picking season in the Hoffstetter orchard.
After the service, Ruth waited by the front door and kept her eyes fastened on Bo to make sure he didn't escape her in the throng.
"Bo, maybe I shouldn't be asking you about a job here, but it occurred to me during the sermon that apple-picking season will soon be starting, and I was wondering if you had all your pickers lined up already or if you still need more workers."
"Well, hello, Ruth, nice to see you, too, and I'm fine, thank you. Yourself?" Bo said, teasing.
"Sorry! Social niceties go out the window when I get an idea in my head. You know me well enough by now to know that."
"I'm not one to stand on ceremony myself."
"Okay, let me start again. Hello, Bo. Nice to see you. How are you?"
"I'm well. And you?"
"In need of a job."
Bo threw his head back and laughed.
" 'Atta girl! Social niceties are overrated. Well, Ruth, I don't have all the pickers I need. Or at least, I could always use another. But I'm not sure. Apple picking is pretty physically demanding. I know you're a good, hard worker, but you haven't been long out of the hospital. D'you really think you'd be strong enough for this type of work? Those picking bags can weigh forty pounds when they're full of apples. You think you'd be able to wear forty pounds of apples, climbing up and down ladders? I'd almost hate to ask you to do it."
"You're not asking me. I'm asking you. Would you be willing to give me a chance at least? I'm stronger than I look. I can work hard when I have to. And it's been at least six weeks since I was in hospital. It's been almost two months. I'm completely well again and eager to do something besides a little bit of gardening and housework. When would apple picking start?"
"I've got a crew starting tomorrow."
"And do you need anyone else for your crew?"
"I could possibly use one more."
"A-ha! You see? It's providence. I knew it! As soon as I saw you in church, I knew it was an inspired idea to ask you about a job."
"Hold on, hold on. You're not hired yet."
"But I will be. Won't I? I'd work hard."
"You know I'd love to help you out, Ruth. We could use another hard worker like you on the crew, and I know your work ethic. I'm not worried that you wouldn't give it everything you've got. But that's the problem. It's you I'm thinking about. I'm concerned about your health. How would I feel if I helped put you back in hospital, giving you a job that was too much for you? Wages picking apples aren't high. You're not paid an hourly wage. You're paid for how much you pick. A strong man has to work like a slave to make e
nough to live off of. I'd be afraid of you killing yourself, trying to earn enough to make up a decent wage. I still think you need to find a job that's a little less demanding physically."
"Bo, I really need this job," Ruth said, trying not to plead but failing. "If I could find another job, I would've done it by now. If I promise I won't overdo it, that I won't push my limits, would you consider hiring me? After all, even if I'm not making what you call a decent wage at it, at least it would be something. Which would be better than the nothing I'm earning now. We're a household of three now. I guess you heard about our house guest. This is Arrowhead. I know you've heard about our house guest. And I've been unemployed for going on three months now. I really need this job," she reiterated.
"But it's not permanent work. It wouldn't be a long-term solution."
"I know that, but it would help. It would help tide us over. Maybe by the time apple season's over, something else'll have come along. Like I say, something is better than nothing."
"Well, I'll tell you what. If you solemnly swear that you will not push yourself to the point of exhaustion ..."
"I do! I swear it."
"Yeah, right!" Bo grumbled. "You know what the Bible has to say about swearing falsely, don't you? But what can I do? You're hired. D'you want to start tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"We start at eight. If you can come at quarter to, I can get you set up – show you which section will be yours, get you a picking bag and your bins, and show you how it's done. It's pretty easy, but there is a bit of a technique to getting the apples off the tree without bruising them. You know where the Hofstetters' orchard is, don't you?"
"I do. And I'll be there. Where will I meet you?"
"I'll meet all the pickers just by the Hoffstetters' house. The rest of the crew are old hands, though, so you'll be the only starter who needs a little extra instruction."
"Fair enough. I'll see you there. Quarter to eight, then."