Cynthia Bond - Ruby

She had cleaned her face as best as she could when the man said, “I ain’t got a car,” then gave her a wink, “but I got me a truck.”

“I can pay you—”

He smiled, bashful but certain. “Yo’ company be payment enough.”

Ruby’s eyebrows lifted a bit. He looked to be about seventy. The few teeth he had left were dark brown with tobacco. He smelled musty with age. She tried to conjure her smile, the one that used to send the New York boys and girls reeling. She tried, but all she managed was a nod.

The old man caught his breath and began dragging her largest bag across the platform, looking back as if he’d just stumbled upon a free steak dinner.

Her little girl shifted inside of her chest and Ruby was forced to step out of the dark room of her mind. Step out and turn off the projector, the one with an old truck pulled over on an abandoned Texas road. And a not so young girl with her head in an old man’s lap, destroying the girl and corrupting the man, whose biggest temptation in all his years had most likely been hard apple cider in his wife’s basement.

Ruby looked up. Gray, when had the sun become so gray?

“You’re in luck lady,” Jonah said. “Train’s coming back.”

“What happened?” the old man with her bag asked plaintively.

“Seems the Rail Manager for Southeastern line’s wife done fell asleep and forgot her stop.”

The railway platform filled with people, surprised at the returning train. The Station Master ran to the doorway flagged by a conductor as the train screeched to its stop, and everyone watched as a drowsy-eyed White woman stepped down. Angry. Embarrassed. Flustered.

Jonah said gently, “Colored car in the rear. Get yourself on and quick.” Ruby flew from the bench, and with his help, gathered her bags and climbed into the designated car. She pushed a ten-dollar bill into his hand. He tried to push it away, but Ruby won out. In seconds the train cranked into movement and headed for the heart of the Black folks’ Liberty.

AN HOUR passed before Ephram returned with two bags of groceries. His forehead was wet and there were dark stains under the arms of his shirt.

Ruby stood, bones stiff from sitting, and nodded towards the house. He waved back and walked towards the porch.

Ruby knew what he would find just inside the door. Refuse, soiled clothes, feces in the corners, caked dirt, flies breeding. Ruby had found that nursing and battling ghosts and the hell of memory was hard work, and keeping house while doing it had proved to be impossible. She was anxious to see how Ephram’s flag of hope fared in such desolate waters. She would not raise hers until she was sure.

She felt saliva rising in her mouth like anger so she spit. Not raise her flag? She’d have to make one first. Hope was a dangerous thing, something best squashed before it became contagious. She looked at Ephram inches from her door and felt a low growl in the pit of her stomach. She doubted he would last the day.

Celia looked at the rooster clock on the kitchen wall. It was now nine on Sunday morning. The In-His-Name Liberty Township chapter of the Holiness Church was beginning service across town and Celia had not put on the navy dress she had ironed the day before. It rested like a grounded flag on the bed in her room — the fabric, napped and pleated just under the bodice, the scooped high collar and sleeves trimmed in duchess lace — starched hard and pointed.

Two minutes after nine. Her eye began to twitch in anger. Celia stood to make breakfast then sat back down. There wouldn’t be time to eat once Ephram arrived home. They would have to hurry and dress. Celia knew that, whatever else he may have done, her boy would be home this morning, because in forty-five years, Ephram Jennings had never missed Sunday service. He certainly, absolutely would not miss today, the day she had patiently waited for the last twenty-five years. The day of the election for Church Mother. Her name was one of only three on the ballot. She began to pace.

For four months Celia had planned to wear her new Star-of-Bethlehem brooch to church this morning. Only members of the congregation with the proper discernment would see the dark-sky dress and the pear-cut rhinestone pin and know the symbology, the statement the dress was making. But when Celia stood in church to bear witness before the election, she would weave the brooch into her testimony, lay it out with such clarity that even Melonie Rankin, her opponent’s own daughter, would give one of her little sighs. May, the Pastor’s wife, would be moved to call out a strong “Hallelujah!” followed by echoes of “Preach on, Sister Jennings!” “Tell the truth and shame the Devil!” “Seraph,” and of course, “In His name!”

The fellowship often said that Celia bore witness to God better than her father, the Reverend Jennings, ever had. That it was a shame she hadn’t been born a man so that she could stand in the pulpit as preacher. Celia, who often watched as Pastor Joshua stumbled midsermon, due to his nearly conquered stuttering habit, never allowed herself the blasphemy of envy. She knew she was born exactly as God intended, to do the work He assigned her.

Celia looked at the clock once more. 9:07. She slammed the kitchen chair under the table, walked to her sitting room window and looked down the red road. Empty. Celia willed Ephram over the hill. The wind whipped up little dust devils on the road in response. Celia gnawed at the inside of her mouth and thought of the matching tri-cornered hat she planned to wear today. It was, she’d noticed when she first saw it in the Spiegel catalog, a holy trinity hat, complete with tall cream and navy feathers. Its illusion lace scooped around the circumference of the hat and her Page Boy wig in silver/black would shine under it bone straight.

Celia pushed the flat of her palm against the windowpane. The wig was waiting for Celia on one of her five foam wig heads. All of Celia’s good hair lived above her dresser mirror. Ephram had nailed up a perfect shelf for them a year ago, so that Celia could look in the mirror, then above at the selection of wigs to determine which one would be best for the garment she was wearing. Her Ephram had done that and so much more. He loved her wigs almost as much as she did. He knew, for instance, that the Charade in Fancy Black was her favorite — long bangs, hanging curls in the back — but that the Misty Page Boy would look best with her new hat.

Celia walked back into the kitchen. 9:15. The fixed frown line between her eyes deepened and she bit deeper into the soft flesh inside her cheeks. A question flashed through her mind: Had he somehow taken his Sunday clothes and planned to meet her there? Celia nearly ran into Ephram’s bedroom. The navy suit still hung where she’d left it yesterday afternoon. The white shirt, washed and ironed, with the blue tie she’d chosen for him, was still draped over the hanger. Celia sat down on Ephram’s bed, anger rising like steam from her wide sturdy body.

Monday through Friday Celia lived in head rags, her scalp oiled with Camber’s Hair Food each evening, then seasoned with a crisscross of bobby pins. She wore housedresses from the Salvation five-and-dime and slippers with the fluff mashed out of them. She cooked Ephram’s meals: breakfast, dinner and supper, plus a nighttime snack. Wrung the necks from chickens and cracked their fertile eggs. She made Ephram’s bed and sprinkled his sheets with rosewater to draw good dreams, then put epsom salts in the corners of his room to keep out haints. Gave him a teaspoon full of ipecac when he had fever and Bayer aspirin when his nerves shot through his arms and legs. Cod-liver oil every weekday morning. Celia scoured and Cloroxed and Lysoled the house at number 8 Abraham Road during the week, and managed the money Ephram earned from bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. Celia kept all of the tips he made taking the groceries to White ladies’ Buicks. Monday through Friday Celia did all this and more for her boy.