Seasons of Her Life (2 page)

“Do you think anyone will ever love me besides you?” Ruby blurted out.

Mary pretended to think. “What I think is you're going to have beaux standing in line, waiting to take you to the picture shows.”

Ruby giggled. “I'm so plain and ordinary. Maybe if I get a permanent. I'm going to get a tube of lipstick, too, and maybe some pearl earrings. I have thirty-four dollars I put away. Pop doesn't know I have it. I think it's enough for maybe two new dresses, shoes for work, and a brassiere,” she said impishly. “I'll grow breasts, too, you wait and see. My hormones are just slow right now.” The old lady laughed in delight at her granddaughter's gamine face.

“You better start home, Ruby, before George comes looking for you. Be a good girl now. I mean a proper young lady.”

“I won't shame you, Bubba. Don't worry about me. Opal is going to take care of you, but I'm not coming back here, ever, even when ... you know ... I'm not!” Ruby said adamantly.

“Ruby, I know that. I don't want you coming back. I want you to remember me like this, not the way I'll look when I'm laid out in those purple dresses the undertakers put on you. That's why I gave you the ring now. There's nothing for you here, Ruby, so you stay away. Send me pictures. Amber sent me a postcard and said she had a camera.”

“Boy, was Pop mad about that!” Ruby giggled. “She paid off her bill, so he could only holler at Mom. She sent pictures and Pop threw them in the stove. Said they were the devil's handiwork. It was a nice picture of Amber, too. She was sitting under the cherry blossom tree and had her legs crossed. Her skirt was up to here,” she said, pointing to the middle of her thighs.

Ruby dropped to her knees. She looked earnestly into her grandmother's face. “I don't think I'll ever love anyone as much as I love you. You've never said a cross word to me even if I deserved it. I'll think of you every day. I'll keep all my promises, and you'll never have to be ashamed of me. I'll remember you sitting here like this. When I'm old I'm going to peel apples just the way you do, all in one curl.”

Ruby leaned closer and hugged her grandmother. “Are you sure,” she said huskily, “that you don't mind if I don't come to your funeral?”

“I'll mind if you do come. If you do, you'll have to see your father. Make up your mind, Ruby.”

“I'm not coming,” Ruby said in a jittery-sounding voice.

“That's good. Now, get along,” Mary said firmly.

Ruby kissed her grandmother one last time and raced off the porch and down the walkway to the street. She didn't want to think about the tears on her grandmother's cheeks.

 

Mary Cozinsky slumped back on the old wicker rocker. The dearest piece of her life was gone now. So many pieces were gone. She set the apple bowl on the floor and withdrew her rosary from her apron pocket. She raised her eyes upward and prayed, simple words from the heart. “Protect my little Ruby,” she pleaded. “And, God, if you decide to send her father, my son George, to hell, I won't question your decision.”

She'd known this day was coming; still, she wasn't prepared for the empty feeling, the devastating sense of loss. She'd given birth to seven children, and she loved them dearly, with the exception of George, but none of her own children touched her heart the way Ruby did. When Ruby was seven and permitted to cross the road and the railroad tracks, the child had begun visiting daily, sometimes twice. By the time Ruby was eight, she was tightly ensconced in the hearts of both her grandparents. When George objected, her husband had straightened him out in the blink of an eye. The handsome cossack had stepped on George the way he would have stepped on a pissant, telling him that Ruby was to visit whenever she wanted. George recognized the threat: either he allowed Ruby to visit or he would forfeit his share of any inheritance.

Still, Ruby paid for her visits in other ways: gross punishments, hand-me-downs, and the loss of her freedom. While the other children played and had fun, Ruby was reading scripture with a Nancy Drew book inside the Bible. The wiry little girl had cooked and cleaned, run errands, and lived in fear in that damnable cell she called a bedroom. Only at her grandparents' house could she be herself, and she blossomed under the umbrella of their love, willingly doing any of the chores asked of her. In the beginning, it was hard for Ruby to accept the rewards—a quarter here, a half-dollar there, wonderful desserts, the love of Sam, the old bloodhound who had died right after Ruby's twelfth birthday. It was an awful birthday for her that year. Just days before, George had told her she hadn't been named Ruby for a precious gem at all, but because she was red and ugly when she was born. Old Sam spent hours licking her tears. Her grandfather had to physically restrain her the day they buried the old hound, for she would have crawled into the special burying place along with him.

She had so much love, that little girl. Often, late at night, when Mikel had been so sick near the end, they would talk about Ruby and what would happen to her. Wanting to leave no stone unturned, Mikel summoned Ruby's mother, Irma, and spoke with her at length. Irma, in her squeaky voice, mumbled that she would never go against George, and Ruby would do as they said. After graduation she would go to Washington to live with Amber, and work. Although it hadn't been said aloud, it was understood that Ruby would begin paying her debt just the way Amber had paid hers. They'd offered, on the spot, to pay on Ruby's behalf, but Irma had squirmed in her chair, frantically shaking her head. From somewhere she summoned the gumption to ask what made Ruby so special to her in-laws. Mikel had looked at her with pity and told her to go home. The moment the screen door banged shut, Mikel asked for the czarina's ring and said, “This is to go to Ruby when you think it's time.”

Two hours after Mikel's funeral, when the beer had flowed and the food was all eaten, George had asked Mary when she was going to sell the ring. She remembered her words as though she'd just uttered them. “You might think I'm a dumb Polack and your father was a dumb Russian, George, but you're wrong. Your father made a will and the ring is mine. I can do whatever I want with it.” And then she blurted out without meaning to: “Ruby told us to make a will; she learned all about wills in school.” The others, George's brothers and sisters, were all behind her chair in the kitchen, supporting her words, when George dragged a screaming, crying Ruby from the house. With Mikel gone, there wasn't a thing any of them could do. Ruby's punishment was compounded daily and ran for months at a time, but Ruby wrote notes that friends delivered and read to her grandmother after school.

Mary wiped her eyes with her apron. She smiled through her tears. She'd done the best she could for the child; the rest was up to Ruby. As long as she had the ring and her picture of Johnny Ray, Ruby would be fine. Her watery eyes took on a sparkle when she thought of Ruby's eighteenth birthday and what she could give to her. Money, of course. Hank and John would contribute, and she'd take all her change in the lard can to the bank. Maybe, just maybe, she could scrape up a hundred dollars. She smiled then, picturing the look on Ruby's face. She could buy all the things she wanted. A real pocketbook, some nylons, maybe some nail polish and new underwear. All the things a young girl would need when she lived and worked in the city.

As for George, Mary made a mental note to deduct $6,093.60 from his share of her estate.

There were so many things she'd never forgive her son for, though she knew there were reasons for the way he'd turned out, reasons almost too horrible to think about. In a town as small as Barstow, with only seven businesses on a small main street, a tiny high school, telephone party lines, conversations over clotheslines, wintertime quilting bees, and summertime garden clubs, there could be no secrets.

The gossip had filled in the details—an older boy had done terrible things to him, sexual things, all while a local tomboy named Bitsy Lucas stood by laughing and taunting and urging the older boy on. But Mary had seen the violation in his eyes the minute he had walked into the house, and he had never forgiven her for the insight. He'd been only eleven years old at the time, and she'd had to take him to the doctor's, so Mikel inevitably found out. From that day forward, father had looked at son with disgust in his eyes.

And from that day forward, whether because of Bitsy Lucas or herself Mary didn't know, George hated all women. He hated her the way he now hated Irma and even his own daughters.

The familiar pain was creeping around her chest again. That old fool of a doctor had told her she shouldn't upset herself. She snorted. With George in the background, how could she be anything but upset? Obviously, a second rosary was called for. The comforting prayers calmed the pain in her chest almost immediately.

 

Ruby slowed her steps and shifted her mental gears the moment she crossed the railroad tracks. Her right hand was in the pocket of her dress, her fingers caressing the tightly wrapped ring. She hoped it didn't bulge too much. Her hand worked to flatten the linen handkerchief as much as she could. They'd just think she had a hanky wadded into a ball. She crossed the fingers of her left hand. Sometimes she thought her father had X-ray vision.

Skirting the gravel lot at the lumber mill, Ruby headed up the street to her house, knowing her parents would be on the porch, waiting for her. She wasn't late. In fact, she still had almost ten minutes before it would be time to leave for the train station. She sucked in her breath as she cut across the Zacharys' lawn next door. She stepped behind an ancient white pine and observed her parents for a minute. They were both tall, but there any similarity ended. Irma was incredibly thin with large, bony feet, red hands, and short fingernails. Her hair was a soft brown, the color of the spring wrens. Ruby was never sure what color her mother's eyes were because she rarely looked directly at her. Probably a greenish-brown. Hazel maybe. She had a warm smile though, particularly when Amber did something that pleased her. Overall, her mother was a tired, weary woman. She worked tirelessly, never sitting down for a cup of coffee or tea. She couldn't, Ruby thought, because George made her perform. The bathroom had to be scrubbed every day from top to bottom. The kitchen floor had to be scrubbed, too. Monday was wash day; Tuesday was ironing day; Wednesday was baking day; Thursday was for changing beds and window washing. Friday was clean-the-whole-house day, and Saturday was for scrubbing the porches, dusting the jars in the fruit cellar, and going to confession. If there were any free moments, they were spent at the sewing machine or mending by hand. Idle hands were the devil's work, her father said. If that was true—and Ruby didn't believe it was—then Irma Connors was damn near a saint. Right now her mother looked nervous, Ruby thought. She was always nervous when she was in her husband's company, always fearful she would say the wrong thing. Irma survived the only way she knew how, by obeying her husband and keeping quiet. Ruby's eyes darkened. Her father wasn't around all the time. There was time enough for an occasional hug or pat on the head or kind word, time her mother chose not to give her.

George was pacing on the porch, his face surly and mean. As far back as she could remember, he'd always looked just the way he looked now. Muscular and hard, long-legged in creased work pants, his shirt ironed to perfection. Her girlfriends thought him handsome; she thought him ugly, inside and out. He was strong and arrogant. Every day of her life she'd felt that strength and arrogance. Cold, piercing eyes were scanning the sidewalk, watching for her. Even from this distance Ruby could see how his lips thinned out. He was angry—at her, at life. Twice she'd seen those cold blue eyes become warm, and both times he'd been staring at Grace Zachary, their neighbor. He often said Grace was the devil's own disciple, in her scanty shorts and halter top. Her mother said she was trash. But nothing could make Ruby deny her affection for Grace, who called her honey and sweetie. She'd liked her even more the day she saw her stick out her tongue and make a face behind her father's back.

The Angelus rang. Noon. Ruby ran around the pine through the yard and along the side of the porch. She wouldn't be late until the last peal of the bell.

“You're late, girl!” George said harshly. Ruby lowered her gaze, staring at the cracks on the porch floor. Early on she'd learned never to look her father in the eye. “Where you been, girl?”

“I went over to Bubba's to say good-bye ... sir.”

George's eyes narrowed. “Your grandmother give you a going-away present?”

“No, sir.” Ruby lied with a straight face. She crossed her fingers inside the pockets of her dress. Bubba hadn't given Amber anything when she went away, so there was no reason for her father to think this time would be any different. Because it was so important that he believe her, she raised her eyes and said, “She did give me a hanky because I started to cry.”

She withdrew the square of white linen with the shirt-tail hem. Her heart took on an extra beat, but she didn't lower her gaze.

“Did you clean your room, girl?”

“Yes, sir. This morning.”

“Did you pack your Bible?”

“Yes, sir. Last night.” Before she got off the train at Union Station she was going to ditch the Bible. If Amber was dumb enough to ask her where it was, she'd lie and say someone on the train stole it. Girl. He'd never called her anything but girl. Was Ruby so hard to say? Or dear or honey? She risked a quick glance at her mother, who immediately looked away.

“Get your bags, and don't be slow about it. Close the door, and don't slam it. I'll bring the car up.”

Ruby climbed the steps to the truck room, a lump in her throat. Close the door, and don't slam it. She'd like to slam the damn door so hard it fell off its hinges. They'd never think of her again until her payments started rolling in. Angrily, she pushed her suitcases down the hall to the top of the stairs. She closed the door quietly, and in a last fit of rebellion, she kicked both suitcases down the steps. They landed with a loud thud. Ruby clapped her hands and grinned, then went downstairs again. Her suitcases upended on the front porch, Ruby stared at her mother, willing her to say something, something kind, something personal. Even a look would do, Ruby thought desperately. She wanted to throw her arms around her mother and cry, but she didn't. You must love me a little bit, she thought, I'm your daughter. She cried silently, never taking her eyes from her mother's face. Hurry, Mom, he'll be here in a second, just a word, a look. Please, Mom. Oh, God, please say it. Now, now, before it's too late. Ruby didn't need to see her father's car come to a halt at the side of the house; she saw the relief in her mother's face.