A Soft Place to Land: A Novel

by Susan Rebecca White

  “How’s business at Pasture?” Armando asked.

  Ruthie shrugged. “It could be better, but I don’t think we’re in danger of closing or anything. Why? You need a new pastry chef?”

  “You’d be the first I’d call,” he said.

  Gabe stared at the floor while they talked, not even pretending to be interested in their conversation. Armando told Ruthie about his upcoming trip to Nicaragua, to suss out new Latin American recipes. Ruthie finished her second drink while listening, envious of his adventures.

  “You want another?” asked Armando, motioning toward her empty glass.

  Ruthie shook her head. She had to work tomorrow, and she was already feeling tipsy.

  “Well, listen, it’s so great to see you. Congrats on the Atlanta best-of mention.”

  “You, too!” said Ruthie, remembering that Mofongo had won for best brunch.

  “Good to see you, man,” said Gabe to Armando, holding out his fist for a bump. The fist bump had become de rigueur for him ever since Barack and Michelle did it after securing the Democratic nomination. At first Gabe did it ironically, implicitly acknowledging his dorky whiteness whenever he held out his fist. But now it was just what he did when signing off.

  After Armando returned to the kitchen, Ruthie was left with a dread feeling. Now she had to resume her fight with Gabe, and she was not even sure she could articulate her feelings clearly, because she was feeling woozy from the booze.

  Gabe jumped right back in.

  “You know, you accuse me of being regressive, but you’re the one who is terrified to take the next step, to move forward in our marriage. We always said we’d have a kid—we talked about it from early on. And now we’re at the end of our twenties. If we want to have more than one—which, believe me, we should; it sucks to be an only child—I just think we need to get on it.”

  Maybe it was the alcohol, or frustration over A.J.’s Post-its, or the rumbling of nerves set off by Julia’s having sent photos, or simply the fact that her husband was using her age to guilt her into having a child, but whatever the cause, Ruthie erupted.

  “Are you kidding me? I gave up everything—everything!—to move with you to Atlanta. I am now thousands of miles away from Mimi and Robert, and Dara, and all of our friends from college, and I am living in your childhood home in a city I never meant to return to, and you are telling me that I can’t move forward? That I am regressive? We are living in your childhood home, Gabe. You are teaching at the same school you went to. And I’m the one that’s regressive. And my problems at work—problems I would not be having had I stayed in San Francisco, by the way—my problems would be solved if I just popped out a kid. Jesus, Gabe, you’re such an asswipe!’”

  In moments of marital strife Ruthie’s vocabulary reverted to that of a foulmouthed middle schooler. Once in a fight she had called Gabe a “fucking fuck-head.”

  She glared at him, sitting across from her so calmly, so imperiously. Well, she could be imperious, too. Rising from her bar stool, she walked outside, stood beneath the restaurant’s awning, trying to breathe deep. She would calm down. She would return to Gabe and tell him she was sorry. It had been a long day. She was rattled by Julia. She watched as a homeless man, someone she recognized from the neighborhood, a broad-shouldered transvestite wearing a sequined top and an ill-fitting black skirt, approached her.

  “Diva,” said the transvestite, “love the earrings!”

  Ruthie’s earrings were round and delicate, made of intricately carved white bone, and though she loved them, too, Gabe once told her they looked like two round tortilla chips hanging from her ears.

  “Thanks,” said Ruthie, giving just a flicker of a smile before staring straight ahead, hoping this person would just mosey on down the street and not try to talk to her anymore.

  “Look, I have HIV—don’t worry; it’s not catching—but I really need fifteen dollars for my medication, so if you could just help me out . . .”

  He tried to hand Ruthie a crumpled sheet of paper, a document that would “prove” his HIV status. It was bullshit. He might be positive, but the document he was holding was the exact same thing another man had shown her earlier that week. Right down to the name at the top and the dried coffee stain along its perforated edge.

  Ruthie looked at the man, at his dripping black eyeliner, the slight stubble on his pale cheeks, his long nails, painted black, that looked as if they could scratch. Had she been living in San Francisco, she probably would have given him some money, figuring that she shouldn’t punish him for his dishonesty, that he was obviously in need of help, regardless of his recycled documentation. But here in Atlanta, where the fence behind her bungalow had twice been burned by vagrant men starting fires, where she was scared to walk half a mile at night because of armed muggings, where she often witnessed drug deals taking place when she walked through Little Five Points, her compassion had shriveled, just shriveled right up.

  “Sorry,” said Ruthie. “I don’t have any cash.”

  “Hug then,” said the man, and held his tracked arms open for her.

  “No,” she said, and then again, more emphatically, because he was still leaning toward her, “No!”

  “Then at least a handshake,” he said, holding out a hand with his long, pointy nails.

  She was yelling at him now, yelling, “I don’t know you! I don’t know you! I don’t know who you are!”

  The man popped his eyes, murmured, “Diva,” one more time, and sashayed away.

  Ruthie began crying in earnest. Crying because of her outburst. Crying because she used to have a tender heart toward the down-and-out, she used to, in fact, wonder if the homeless might all be Jesus in disguise. Crying because of Chef A.J’s hostility and Big Steve’s aggression, because of the failing economy and the dwindling customers at Pasture. Crying for her old life in San Francisco, for streets populated by pedestrians—day and night—and breathtaking views at the top of every hill, for Mimi and Robert, who still lived in their old flat on Mars, for trannies who were happy and well adjusted and did not try to hug you for spite.

  But mostly Ruthie cried because even though her parents had been dead for nearly two decades, she still missed them. Naomi especially, who held her so tightly when she was just a little girl. Missed them even more so, now that she was back in Atlanta, so close to where she grew up, but in such a completely different world. Only a few miles away, and yet she hadn’t returned to Buckhead, not once.

  And Julia. She missed Julia. Her sister who used to place her hands on her shoulders so protectively, who used to run after Ruthie any time she was banished from the table for childish behavior, who used to let her sleep in her room when she would get scared at night. She missed the big sister she once had. A lifetime ago.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning when Ruthie, hungover, checked her Gmail account, in addition to a note from Robert about his and Mimi’s upcoming trip to Atlanta, an e-mail from Dara that included a jpg of baby Theo, several pleas from the Democratic Party of Georgia, and an announcement of a winter sale at J.Crew, there was an e-mail from Julia. She knew it! She knew she would be hearing from her sister. There was a reason why Julia sent the photos—she was surely up to something—and Ruthie felt certain that Julia’s e-mail would explain. Still, she waited to read it last, as if receiving a note from Julia were a casual thing.

  Hi! It’s been too long. So my agent says it’s time for me to go back to writing memoir, considering that The View from Williamsburg was far from a “box office smash.” I think she’s right—and I’ve decided to take the plunge and finally write about our family, about what happened to us, starting with Mom leaving Dad for Phil and going through the accident and beyond. And listen, I promise to show you what I’m going to publish before it goes to the printers, so we can work out whatever issues you might have. (I can’t promise to cut anything, but I promise to work with you on whatever might make you uncomfortable.) But first I’ve got to write Mom’s story, and w
hat I’m trying rather desperately to figure out is: how did a good girl from Union City, TN, have the temerity to leave her first husband, child in tow, to be with Phil, who was still married at the time? (Our mother was nothing if not an interesting woman, huh?)

  Any insight you have into her psychology would be great. But also, here are some more pedestrian questions that I need help with:

  1. Do you remember the name of the nail polish she used to wear? I remember it was a deep plum, but I don’t think it was called plum.

  2. Did she used to eat cottage cheese and fruit for lunch or was it plain yogurt? I’m thinking it was cottage cheese, but I’m not positive.

  3. Did they call you at all when they were in Las Vegas, during those days before the crash?

  Oh, and I need any old letters, pictures, etc. Do you have any? And did you get the two I sent you? Priceless, aren’t they? Let’s talk soon. I’ll be on a plane all afternoon—headed to North Carolina to get some serious writing done. I’m going to be staying at a friend’s house for a bit while she’s away on sabbatical from her teaching job at Davidson. Apparently the only company I’ll have for the next three weeks are the ducks that live on the pond behind her house. Which is great, because solitude equals productivity! But of course I’ll still have e-mail, and assumedly I’ll get cell service there, so please be in touch.

  Love,

  J

  Ruthie had no idea what color nail polish her mother wore, though she remembered once knowing, remembered how thrilled she was when her mother would paint her nails, too, just for fun. It was cottage cheese and not yogurt that her mother ate. Alex Love used to make fun of it behind Naomi’s back, saying that cottage cheese looked like something you coughed up, like phlegm. And yes, they had called the day before the crash. Ruthie, annoyed at being stuck with Mother Martha while everyone else was on vacation, had been sullen and the call had been brief.

  Not that she was going to tell Julia any of this. Why in God’s name did Julia think Ruthie would aid her sister in the writing of another memoir? As if that first one hadn’t been painful enough, as if that first one hadn’t revealed enough. Now her own private family stories were to be interpreted through Julia’s eyes and then put out for the world to read? And because Julia would fix her version of their story to the page, hers would become the truth. Julia’s memory, Julia’s sensibility, Julia’s philosophy would trump Ruthie’s because Julia’s would be the one that people read.

  Ruthie felt terrible. Not just from the e-mail, but from the alcohol the night before. She had dry mouth; she was hungry; her head ached. She decided to take a shower, get dressed, and drive to Chick-fil-A, to rely on that time-tested combo of grease and salt to cure a hangover. She would get a Chick-fil-A sandwich, douse it in Texas Pete hot sauce, and wash it down with a lemonade, maybe drive around listening to country music afterwards, just for the full southern experience.

  But when she got in the Volvo after showering and dressing in jeans, a T-shirt, a long cardigan, and an intricately patterned scarf Mimi had brought her from India, instead of heading to the Chick-fil-A in Decatur, which was the one she always went to, Ruthie instead drove to North Highland, and from there she turned onto Freedom Parkway, the lusciously landscaped road that led to the interstate. She passed the Carter Center on her left, reminding herself that she really should go sometime and see—well, whatever it was Jimmy Carter kept in there. She continued on the parkway, stopping at the red light at Boulevard. Standing at the corner was a black man holding a handmade sign that read: I HAVE CANCER. PLEASE HELP.

  Ruthie, who had resolved to give her money to organizations, not individuals, stared straight ahead while hoping that the side door of the Volvo was locked. Deciding that if it was not that was just her own tough luck. She would not insult the man by leaning over to lock the door in his presence. (The Volvo, which was built in 1980, did not have power locks.)

  When the light turned green Ruthie drove toward the interstate entrance, the downtown skyline bold on the horizon, a skyline that was most impressive if viewed from a distance and preferably at night. Up close Atlanta’s downtown was a mess of ugly hotels built in the eighties, corporate office towers, and third-rate storefronts that sold cheap suits, fake gold watches, and sweatshirts advertising the ATL.

  As soon as she entered the highway it split, one half going south, toward the city’s predominantly black neighborhoods, one going north, toward the white ones. Or at least, that was how the city’s demographics used to be. Now things were changing, sort of. A lot more whites lived in the city, and many black families had moved to the suburbs. Inman Park had become so gentrified in the past ten years that Schwartzy could hardly stand it, which was why she had moved to Decatur.

  “What happened to the hippies and rednecks in rusty pickup trucks?” she had lamented.

  Ruthie continued on I-75/85 North. She passed the steeple of All Saints’ Episcopal Church, where she used to go with the Loves after spending Saturday night with Alex. It was at All Saints’ where Alex’s little sister, Amy, pointed out that Ruthie was wearing white shoes after Labor Day. They were standing in the vestibule, waiting for Mr. Love to come out of the men’s room so they could go to their pew, when Amy pointed to Ruthie’s shoes, declaring, “You’re not supposed to wear white shoes in the winter.”

  “Shush, Amy,” said Mrs. Love.

  Ruthie stared at her scuffed white ballet flats, wondering who else at church had noticed them.

  Amy, only seven, protested. “But, Mom, you always said it was tacky to—”

  The look Mrs. Love gave her daughter shut her mouth.

  Just across the street from All Saints’ was The Varsity, where the Loves used to get lunch after church, a greasy treat for their piety. Once Ruthie told Mr. Love that she did not like Varsity hamburgers, that she found the meat too soft and greasy. He acted shocked, proclaiming her “un-Christian, unsouthern, and unpatriotic.”

  She was pretty sure he was joking.

  She passed the new Atlantic Station development on the left, a place that depressed her, for though it was heralded as a model of New Urbanism, she viewed it as nothing more than an oversized mall with apartments. Just past Atlantic Station the highway split again, the four far left lanes becoming I-85 North, the three far right lanes I-75 North. She had been driving in the exact middle lane of the highway, as if she wasn’t sure which way she would go once the highway split.

  Of course she veered right, toward 75, toward Buckhead. Immediately she had to merge and merge and merge again, as the exit for Northside Drive was coming right up, almost without warning.

  She made the exit. She was off the freeway, back on the northwest side of town, the area where she grew up. She turned right on Northside Drive, a street made of three lanes, the middle one reversible. Atlanta was hilly and Northside Drive was no exception. The street ran over a series of steep hills, up and down, up and down. Coming up on a hill, you couldn’t see over the curve until you were at the top, so if you were driving in the middle lane and someone coming from the opposite direction messed up and drove in the middle lane as well, their car and your car would crash at full speed on top. Because of this many drivers avoided Northside’s reversible lane altogether.

  Not Ruthie’s father. Phil always drove in the middle lane on Northside Drive. He said it was quicker.

  “They call this the suicide lane, you know,” Naomi would say.

  “Relax, babe. I’ve got it under control.”

  Sometimes he would glance in the rearview mirror and make eye contact with Ruthie. “See what I have to put up with?” he would say. His old refrain.

  Driving in the far right lane meant waiting forever at the stoplight at Collier Road, where everyone seemed to want to turn right, and yet there was no right turn on red and so the going was slow, slow, slow. Ruthie considered turning right on Collier and driving to Ardmore Park, where Julia used to go with her old boyfriend Dmitri to make out. The train tracks ran straight through that park, and so
metimes Julia would drive Ruthie over there and they would walk on them.

  Ruthie kept going straight on Northside, passing the Bobby Jones Golf Course on her right. She remembered how she used to bicycle around the paved paths intended for the carts. What a discovery that was—all of those smooth, traffic-free paths amid the shorn green grass of the course. She had wondered why others didn’t bike there, too.

  The answer came one day when a golf ball whizzed by her, just barely missing her cheek. A white-haired man wearing pants stitched from multiple patches of madras plaids lumbered off the course and onto her path. He stood about fifteen feet in front of her, stretching out his arms in order to block her from passing as she biked up to him.

  “Stop, lassie, stop,” he said.

  Lassie? Was he calling her a dog?

  Though she was scared of him, she stopped. What else could she do?

  “You’re going to end up with a concussion if you keep riding around while we are trying to hit balls,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Well, off with you then,” he said. “Leave us to our golfing.”

  On her left was Memorial Park, where she and Julia went to swing the day of her parents’ funeral. Where Julia told her she didn’t believe in heaven. The park’s perimeter was 1.8 miles, a fact she recalled from when she and Julia used to go there to jog. Julia always had more stamina than she. Ruthie would usually give up in the middle, would start walking right where Howell Mill intersected with Peachtree Battle. There were always lots of joggers there, fit and groomed men and women, wearing T-shirts that proclaimed their Greek affiliation. When Ruthie was in seventh grade she was enamored of the women in their sorority T-shirts, women who so obviously belonged to the world of the pretty, the fit, the few. Back then she wanted nothing more than to go to Georgia and be in Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority, the sorority Mrs. Love was in when she was an undergraduate there.