Cynthia Bond - Ruby

Then, from the big thicket, the spirit of another child appeared, a boy, about twelve, with a noose about his neck. Then another, a little tan girl, hands bound. Then another. And another. One with blood soaked through her clothes. One child, naked, eyes red. More came, walking slowly across the earth towards her, with stories of their deaths hanging just above their heads. Ruby remembered a word she had heard Maggie’s mother say once—“tarrens,” the spirits of murdered children. Tarrens. All of the children who had been killed in those woods. They were speeding towards her. Their faces washed in horror. They were running from the creature between the pines. At first she was scared. Then she heard them, a hundred little whispers, each voice a thread, weaving such a sorrowful blanket.

So she waited on the porch. Then, one by one they slipped into her body for protection. One by one she let them in.

Ruby walked into the house and sat with her back against the wall in the kitchen, her eyes on the front door, her empty stomach grinding, heart banging beneath her ribs. She felt the Dyboù in the ink of the pines. Watching, shifting the branches. Ruby waited. She waited with nothing but her hands and her fear to save them — but if he came, she would try. Sweat dripped down her neck and collected in the hollow at the base of her throat. It streamed down her sternum. As morning broke, Ruby knew, like a nail rusted in her sternum, that sooner or later, he would come again and try to take them.

Mixed in the cacophony of all she had lost, and all she had found, Ruby stumbled into a merciful sleep.

That night the old crow perched just above her on the rooftop. She would stay and watch over her until dawn.

Ephram walked quickly into the heart of town. Four-forty. Time slipping. He saw the congregation of men at P & K, laughing, frowning, faces ripe with sweat. They loomed ahead on the porch. He’d hoped to miss their evening game but the day had grown old on him.

Verde May Rankin, Chauncy’s younger sister, was picking out dried goods and discussing the latest Ebony with Miss P. Ephram faded into the spice shelf and waited, his hand keeping a soft, anxious beat. Verde May, the unfortunate recipient of the Rankin males’ bulk and height, leaned into Miss P and paused just above Billy Dee Williams and the “Pretty Black Men” article he was featured in.

“If he was a grapefruit, I would squeeze him dry.”

Miss P chuckled. “Girl, you greedy, I be set with one little drop.”

Both women shared a laugh.

Leaning against bottles of cayenne and cinnamon, Ephram remembered the day Ruby had arrived back in Liberty. Eleven years ago, in August of 1963, hundreds of thousands of Negroes had marched in Washington, D.C., exactly two days before Ruby showed up at P & K. Ruby had bucked the tide and made her way behind enemy lines. Ephram had seen her standing in the exact same spot Verde May stood today. She’d worn city shoes with straps and height, carried four sleek pink bags. Thick black lines framed her questioning eyes, a nervous smile on her red lips. Her hair was pressed straighter than some White folks’ and twisted up high on her head. It was the first time Ephram had seen Ruby properly since they drank hot cocoa at Ma Tante’s.

Before that, Ephram had spotted Ruby twice from a distance. At thirteen he’d seen her one Sunday through the church window. He’d wanted to bolt up and call out to her, but Celia had shot him a look that kept him nailed to his pew. He’d had to wait five years to see Ruby again. She’d been with Maggie at sunset. He was nearly a stone’s throw from them on the road. Maggie in men’s coveralls, Ruby pretty in white lace. They were arm and arm. He’d watched Ruby once again tiptoe and press her forehead against Maggie’s chin on the quiet road, just as he had seen her do at Marion Lake so many years ago. They stayed that way for a beat, then two. It was a soft simple thing that felt like a paw resting on his heart. Then they’d turned and walked towards Bell land.

That August of ’63 in P & K, Ephram had seen the girl he’d known right away. Everyone knew her, but were taken aback by the thick of her perfume and the clip of her speech. Ephram heard Miss P say later that Ruby sounded like a radio broadcaster. It seemed to Ephram that in the thirteen years she’d been gone, she’d ironed Liberty right out of her voice.

There’d been a crowd on the porch peeking in, men and women, a row of children hiding behind the pickles and candy. It wasn’t until Ruby asked about Maggie that she softened like cotton candy. It was then the porch seemed to see her as Charlotte Bell’s daughter, Papa Bell’s grandbaby. In that open door, Ephram watched as Miss P went to give the girl a hug. Ruby bristled and inched back, shaming the older woman into converting her gesture into straightening Tabasco bottles on a nearby shelf.

Then Ruby spoke slowly, as if addressing a group of first graders. She asked if someone could carry her to her land. Not Papa Bell’s, not her dead grandmama’s, but hers. It looked as if folks took note of that right away. She said she’d be willing to pay twenty dollars for the courtesy. Before anyone could answer, she purchased Clorox, a mop, a broom and a stack of dishcloths as if someone giving her a ride had already been decided. And although each and every person within earshot looked offended, she was right. Twenty dollars was twenty dollars. Charlie Wilkins volunteered.

Ephram had been getting Celia a Sunday paper when he heard her. Saw her. Saw the circles of sweat under the blue of her sundress as he came close to lay the dime and nickel down on the counter. He was careful not to brush her as he swept silently from the store.

She tried to tip Percy Rankin two dollars for gallantly carrying her bags to Charlie’s car and opening the door for her, without an inkling that she was insulting both the family and the man. Then she drove away, leaving a cloud of disdain behind her like an unpleasant scent.

Ephram had seen all of this and did not know why he’d felt pierced through with a crushing sorrow. He had kept to himself the rest of that day. He forgot to wish Celia a pleasant sleep. He did not brush his teeth or put on fresh pajamas. He lay in his thin bed, fully clothed, staring into the night. He did not fall asleep until dawn.

“WHAT YOU need today, Ephram?” Miss P asked him warmly. At sixty-nine, everything on her was round and smooth, her eyes, cheeks and jaw. Her fluffy white hair rounded to a bun in back. Her neck rolled into her full breasts, which gave way to even fuller hips and thighs. She always reminded Ephram of bread fresh out of the oven.

“Didn’t see you there. Me and Verde discussin’ serious business here.” She winked at Ephram.

Verde May had retrieved her copy of Ebony and was leaning over Billy Dee, who smiled up at her from the counter. She ignored Ephram completely.

“So what you need?”

“Bit of iodine and cotton, brown thread and a needle, please Miss P.”

“Give me a minute, baby.” She disappeared into the back as Chauncy strode into the store, opened the glass cooler and retrieved a Pepsi-Cola. He studied his sister, Verde May, as he opened the bottle against the counter.

“Look like the canary drooling after the cat.”

Verde answered without looking up, “Look like yo’ fly is open.”

Chauncy quickly zipped up and slumped out to the porch.

Miss P reappeared with his items. She punched them into her ancient register.

“That’ll be four ninety-five, Ephram.”

Ephram glanced at his wristwatch, minutes melting, disappearing. He edged around Verde May to get to the counter. It was awkward with the cake. She shifted in an angry huff. He reached into his pocket and realized he’d left his wallet sitting on the corner of his dresser.