Cynthia Bond: Ruby

The song danced above her bowed head. Her tears dampening the ground beneath her. She understood then there was another reason she had never run. The Reverend Jennings. He had not swallowed her down as he had her children. Instead he had braided their spirits one to the other, then threaded them through her body. Each step she took away pulled the Dyboù closer.

Then in the distance hundreds of branches quivered. Ruby felt him moving towards her as if he had been called. She tried to rise but in seconds he fell on her like a block of timber. Ruby felt the flash of his teeth, the gutted rub of his breath above her. The heft of his shadow pressing her dress, her hair close to the ground. Her scalp twisted, throbbing. The pine needles flew and swirled around her. Clouds of dust whipping in her eyes. She felt as if a lit match had been thrown under her. A sickly fire warmed her pelvis. Then, in spite of everything he had done, her body moved with him.

She slapped at her face and pulled her black hair. Her breath pushed, forced out of her lungs in hot frenzied blasts. She shifted her legs to allow.

He entered her completely. Sliding, filling. Then everywhere, under her fingernails, through her tear ducts, her eardrums and open mouth, like swallowing a hurricane. They joined, merged. Ruby saw the shrunken raisin of the world through his eyes. The surety that all men were lined in tar and pitch. They were not different. They breathed as one. Rising and falling. She too hated. Hated like a jackknife slashing the canvas of the world. Hated the men who had taken her. Hated the fire. Hated the hands. Hated the clink of every damned quarter. Hated Peter Green and Miss Barbara and in the great swirl of it all — hated her own sinew and bones. It was the hate that joined them.

It had ruled her. Even her children had not been bigger than this hate. Ruby knew then that she had never nursed her children with hope. She had nursed them with fear and death. She had nursed them with evil as truth. She taught them not to rise, not to fly, but to crouch, to hide. She had fed each the poison of self-hate and they had grown weak because of it. Weak enough to be taken.

The Dyboù’s voice growled through her as she pushed her hips into the crackling air. She felt herself build, build, rising. Bitch. My little whore. Little cunt .

Ruby became that.

Ruby’s back scraped on the earth as he moved within her. She felt the sorrow of the soil beneath her. The grieving roots of a dogwood tree holding her. The sweet bay magnolia soothing the wind with its fragrance. The ticks of the crows pausing in the branches and what was left of the sun leaning to warm her twisted face. Ruby felt the red clay pulse around her.

A chain saw screeched through her like at Grueber’s mill. Still, she knew she was not alone. A red oak stood proudly beside a thistle blossom. And the pines, the pines towered above her. They were older than her and everyone she had known, older than the Dyboù.

The Reverend growled, buckling the thin skin of her shins, her thighs. Then Ruby remembered. She saw the lampshade and heard the squeaking bed at Miss Barbara’s and remembered she could hide in the chinaberry tree while the world was thundering overhead. As she had so many times as a child, she sat under the umbrella shade, the berries green and hard enough to roll between her fingers. She felt a soft weight upon her shoulder and Maggie was by her side. Sharp as razors, sweet as taffy. Her arms held Ruby close, “You listen to me. Listen now and don’t you forget. Ain’t nothing you ain’t a part of. You want to know about that sky, then you feel it swimming in your chest. You want to know about them life tall pines, then feel they bark on your skin. Ain’t nothing you ain’t and can’t be a part of. You already got honeysuckle in your breath. Already got them roses on your lips.”

The Dyboù yanked her back to the forest, lifted her inches above the soil, the clearing rumbling, the trees bending. A branch cracked and sailed through the clearing. So Ruby prayed. The spark of life that was still in Ruby answered. A firefly was flickering. It landed upon her finger … like a flare it took hold. Next, it fanned to her wrists and arms. The circle of her waist ignited, along with her long legs and toes. It leapt to her shoulders, set the edges of her hair aflame and poured from her open mouth.

Ruby began to fight. She called on the roots for help. The water winding under the earth and into Marion Lake. Ruby prayed to the dome of life around her. She felt the invincible black walnut growing wild. The might of the golden oak. The lavender foxglove sprinkled near Rupert Shankle’s hen house. The spark inside of her flared. It began to smoke, then burn, then rise.

Ruby started kicking, arms flying against the gray nothing of the Dyboù. He faltered for a moment so Ruby scrambled back. He roared through her, but she somehow, pushed herself up to standing and screamed into the thick air with all of her might.

“I ain’t yours! I ain’t your whore! I ain’t your nothing!”

She began to push out, with her hands. Her feet stomping hard on the ground. He held on, held on, until Ruby felt the tug, the anchor of the rope that bound them.

She looked at him, the fire of spirit burning through her eyes. She felt the tether weaken.

“I’m not meant for using! I never was! Never was! I ain’t never never going to be used again!”

She felt the rope burn to cinder. He paused, then flew out of her. He seemed to shake, then fall away, swirling into the shadow of the forest until he became too small for Ruby to see. She sat in this new silence. Felt a new freedom in her bones.

Then she remembered Ephram. Not at all like Maggie. Not sweetness and golden bluster. Maggie who would have fought armies for her, if only they had shown their faces. Maggie, so grand that she painted the sky with stories of catfish and heaven. Ruby had loved her for all of that, more than her life.

Ephram was different. He did not fight the world, he moved through it. He watched life marching before him and watched the beauty and the foolishness. Then he stepped, gently into the noisy, pounding fray. He had found his way to her door. He had tended her. He had stood right alongside her, not in front with his dukes up. Perhaps that is why Ruby learned that she could protect herself. Say “no” herself. Cast out the Dyboù herself.

Ruby then remembered the periwinkle ringing the earth brown of Ephram’s eyes. His walk, as smooth and easy as Marion Lake. She then thought of his smile, and the way the corners of his mouth curved to accept it. She thought of his heart and the way he had loved her. Seen her. Helped her see her own worth. Her own treasure. She had never been his whore. She never would be. Not if they did not see each other for a thousand years. She would always be loved.

Ruby knew then that a lie could only control a person if they believed it. That all of the work the Reverend, Miss Barbara — all of them had done. All of the spells they had cast. All of it had been to convince her of a lie.

The song she heard was louder, it lifted high above the horizon. Ruby looked up and listened. It was coming from Marion Lake.

EPHRAM STOOD at the shore. The woman from Nacogdoches had finally, at long last, finished and stepped out of the water. The men seemed dismayed as Supra Rankin quickly ran up to her with a towel.

Ephram paused and took in the lake in the dimming light. The Pastor was kindly waiting, yet with a smug look of victory tugging at his lips. K.O.’s wife had not stopped singing “Oh Happy Day” for fear Verde might cut in. Ephram was glad. She did the song justice. So much so that frogs began their nightly serenade early. The crickets joined in along with a bold mockingbird. Ephram took a breath, lifted his foot when he felt the push on his back. He turned around. It was Celia. Not content to allow him to walk unescorted into his new life, she had walked past the congregation to the shore and given him a little nudge.