Ruthie
Chapter 3
Walter sat on the worn park bench. His only worldly possession was a small wire cage with a clasp door. Inside sat Walter’s beautiful homing pigeon, Jackie. She had feathers the color of a grey-blue sky when the clouds are thinning. Jackie also had a map inside her brain that no matter where Walter traveled would carry her home.
Walter had always been impressed with homing pigeons’ abilities to travel thousands of miles in only a short few days. Some believe these birds have the ability to orient themselves with the earth’s magnetic field or even the sun. He stared at the bird’s stout body, short legs, and smooth plumage that lay tightly against her skin. Walter knew the truth. He had raised Jackie for years, winning blue ribbons and trophies. First, the bird had to be healthy, with no broken feathers, but the biggest factor in winning was a nest with young babies. Jackie’s concern for her young would bring her back in a flash. Yet, it had been a long time since Jackie had any young. Walter thought about this often because he wanted to return home to his own family. Like a crippled bird, his wings were broken, so was his heart. His own map had become confused, and he no longer knew which direction to turn.
The note was still tucked safely in a holding device on the back of Jackie’s leg. It had been almost a year since Walter had released his homing pigeon, almost a year since he returned one last time to collect his bird he’d released. No matter how many miles of road was under them, one thing was certain--when Walter released Jackie, she would only go to the home Walter had raised her at. The home he now had deserted. Jackie’s compass would always lead her back to that place of security. Now Walter felt just the opposite; home had become an unsecure sorrowful place filled with loneliness---. Walter thought back to the day he had returned to collect his friend Jackie. He stood on the porch and unrolled the frayed message, written in bright red ink, all capital letters, one word, one word that cut through the heart of Walter. The note simply read “unforgiven.” Walter had placed it back in Jackie’s holder a constant reminder of his mistakes and how his daughter viewed him now.
As he sat on the park bench with the sun peeking through the clouds, he continued to meditate on his former home and family. He had wanted to stay and had tried to stay. At first, it wasn’t so bad; his daughter had helped to look after Ruthie. In the beginning, he only had to be concerned with her forgetting the small things, like, if they had eaten dinner, who had called on the phone, or what day of the week it was. But, as her disease progressed, she soon began to forget more and more important things. Once, Walter had found her wandering the streets of the quiet neighborhood where they had lived for thirty years. She had been aimlessly looking for something familiar, not remembering the color of her front door or the flowers she had planted in the window boxes.
Eventually, Walter had conceded to have Ruthie placed in a facility where she could receive constant care. His daughter, Brenda, and son Daniel visited daily, bringing small items to make her room a little more cheerful. Then the Alzheimer’s caused a speedy downward spiral. Walter had come that morning to visit her like any other morning with an Egg McMuffin, small coffee, and juice. When he entered her room, she looked at him as if it were the first time they had ever met. She seemed startled, “What’s your name? Are you Charles’s friend?” Charles was one of the male nurses assigned to her room. “No dear, it’s me Walter, your husband,” he pleaded.
“I’m married?” Ruthie said nodding. “Oh yes. Did you feed the cat this morning and milk the cows?” Ruthie hadn’t lived on a farm since she was a girl.
“Yes Ruthie,” he sighed, “it’s all been done.” He reached for her hand, but she swatted him away and began to sing “Oh Susanna!” While rummaging through her vanity drawer, she picked up her dental floss, dropped it back in the drawer and was holding her toothbrush and looking at it as if it were a foreign object. She held it up and then she rubbed the bristles across her cheek. She kept picking up the tube of toothpaste and looking at it. Finally, after giving up in frustration, she made her way to bed. There she stared wild-eyed at the bars on the window that kept her inside.
Almost as soon as she had lain down, Ruthie pulled herself up again from the bed. She walked to the window peering out into the courtyard where she and the others would sit on sunlit mornings. She began to reach for the picture that Daniel, her son, had brought her. The sterling silver frame was decorated with ropes that formed a bow at the top. It was a studio picture he and his wife had made of their grandchildren, Jessie and Jessica, the twins. Suddenly she turned toward Walter, “What’s your name again?” Her brow was creased and her thoughts seemed a hundred miles away. The doctors had warned Walter that she would indeed begin to not recognize her family members. Eventually, she would not even know Walter. He guessed that day had come.
Walter rubbed his face with his hands. He became abruptly aware of his twisting stomach and the lump in his throat. She was his life, the mother of his children, his soul mate. He met Ruthie when he was just out of the army. He had known from the first moment he laid eyes on her, that God had placed Ruthie on this earth for him to love. To look at her now, the hollow unknowing eyes, to leave her all alone in the bed with just four walls, was too much for him to bear. Walter couldn’t take the pain.
He drove away each evening to the home they had shared. The rooms held memories of laughter, heartache, and the love that they had carried for over forty years. Now the walls seemed to close in on Walter. He found the air thick and heavy, just like his heart. The doctors began to warn him that the Alzheimer’s would eventually prove fatal. Ruthie would not only forget her loved ones, she would also forget how to swallow and then the unthinkable, she would forget how to breathe.
He sat at home the evening of their anniversary. He had visited her at the nursing home that morning, bringing a dozen yellow roses. They were always her favorite, since the first one he had given her only one month into their relationship. He remembered it as if it were only the day before. They had been to the lake with a picnic lunch, and they had spread his wool green army blanket under an old huge oak tree, talking until sunset. He had almost forgotten the one long stemmed yellow rose taken from his mother’s bush. He had wrapped it in crepe paper and laid it under the lunch in the cooler to stay fresh. Ruthie had been so appreciative. Unlike the other girls he’d dated, she was content just to sit with Walter, enjoy nature and listen to him talk.
They held hands and walked along the bank of the lake. Walter had not even dared to kiss her yet, even though they had been together for a whole month. Walter knew Ruthie was special and these matters take time. “You can’t rush love,” his father always said and Walter didn’t dare tarnish their relationship. Ruthie had placed the single rose in a book to press. She had kept it all these years. Walter wished terribly that he could have that Ruthie back, but she had died some years ago leaving behind a shell, a demented Ruthie, who was often senile.
Walter sat in the living room and remembered the day’s earlier events with sorrow. He had carried the bouquet down the corridor and held the yellow cut roses out to Ruthie. “Happy anniversary,” he sang. Ruthie had stared at the bouquet and smiled at Walter. Taking the roses in her arms, she inhaled their aroma. His heart leaped, she remembers, he thought! But then she turned toward Walter with that faraway look. Her once auburn hair was now gray, muffled and boisterous. Her lips looked as if they had been colored with lipstick. She was wearing one of the terry cloth robes her daughter had brought her months before. It was pale blue and seemed to match her eyes. Walter had always loved the color of Ruthie’s eyes. Her eyes reminded him of the bright blue sky, the color of a rainbow, when violet mixes with green. Still, it wasn’t so much the color but the love that radiated from them. Now, no matter how hard he searched, he could not find any connection in her eyes. She continued to stare at him blankly and spoke frantically that she would call the police and have him arrested for trespassing on private property. “This is private property, you know,” s
he stated matter-of-factly. Walter could not find words to say and instead sank into a chair and pressed the call button for a nurse. Charles brought Ruthie a sedative and she quickly fell asleep. Walter lay caressing her back on the bed as he had for so many years, holding her close to him and longing for her to know him. “Oh Ruthie, I miss you so. I miss your spirit for life and your ability to restore the most dejected creature’s joy. I miss you more and more each day. I don’t want to live without you, Ruthie.” He patted his hand so softly over her hair and down to her cheek.
“How can I live without you? How can I wake up one morning without you?” He looked at her lying there peacefully and wished it could be like it was.
It’s no use he thought. She will only get worse, and I can’t stand to see her like this. He ran his hands over her face and kissed her cheek. He said his goodbyes and made the decision never to return, not even for the funeral. No one would understand if he came back then. No, there was nothing else to do to stop this agonizing pain of seeing her this way. As he spent his last night in the home he and Ruthie had shared, he thought of nothing but escape.
The Bitter Root
Chapter 4
Tabitha liked playing in the sandbox outside. Her father had built it especially for her. She loved running her fingers through the warm grains of sand and scooping them up with her bright red shovel. She also liked playing in the woods behind her house; there was a small creek and she could make mud pies or chocolate brownies. Sometimes, she’d take her mother’s old kettle pot and fill it with water from the creek, then she would add rocks, grass, and dandelions for flavor. A big wooden stick helped her stir her concoction she referred to as rock soup. Josh usually left her alone when she played chef. He wanted instead to ride his bike through the woods, up the dirt trails to his secret hideout. That’s what he called it.
“It’s got a bed and everything,” he told his mother all about his discovery during dinner. Desiree didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He had fabricated so many stories that it was hard to tell when he was telling the truth. Desiree convinced herself that it was probably the clubhouse of another neighborhood child. Still, Josh swore he had seen an elderly man lying on a dirty quilt one day as he rode by. Desiree’s overworked mind began to spin. Could someone be living out there, behind my property? Surely not. She dismissed the idea quickly, thinking of all the homeless shelters, police officers, and the neighborhood watch. Goodness gracious the neighborhood watch would notice something. More than likely it was just another one of Josh’s stories. Still he did seem animated when he talked about it.
She worried about Josh and his fabricated tales. Desiree had taken both children to a counselor after their father’s death. She had continued with their visits faithfully. Both children were asked to draw a picture of their family unit on their last visit. It had been quite some time since John’s death, and Desiree wondered what their little hands would create. Would their pictures still hold an image of their father or would he be gone? She pondered how life could change so drastically and how all it took was one day. Desiree picked up her son’s drawing. Josh’s artwork displayed his father much larger than anyone else in the picture, yet he was lying on the ground. He placed images of his mother, Tabitha and himself next to a large tree, holding hands. Everyone was smiling and seemed to be enjoying a day of sunshine and blue skies. Desiree looked at the image of John he’d drawn and felt a stab inside her heart.
Tabitha had drawn her father as well, only she drew him much smaller than her mother. Desiree looked at the huge shoes she had placed upon her feet. They were bright green and looked clownish. Tabitha had given Desiree hoop earrings and a mane of hair she coveted. She had also sketched a house-like structure in the background and a small creature that resembled a cat, but Desiree couldn’t be sure. She then drew Josh outside her circle of family, giving him no feet or clothing. He was only a stick boy with eyes and limbs, limbs with no ability to walk or reach. When she inquired about this, the counselor said, “I think she likes the idea of him squirming in his nakedness, with no feet to carry him. He must pester her a great deal!” She smiled as she said it, but Desiree wondered if she knew the extent. The psychiatrist had continued to assure her this was all normal behavior. “They are just having a difficult time dealing with such a loss. This is still in the healing process. Your children will be fine. Get them involved in activities. Meet new people.” She then turned her expertise upon Desiree.
“Maybe you should start to date; it has been way over a year? You have got to get out there and start living life again. You and I both know John would have wanted you to. Desiree, when the children see you healing and becoming excited about life again, they too will relish in it.”
Desiree’s thoughts flashed back to her husband, her role as wife and mother. She was still grieving him. She seemed incapable of getting away from his ghost. She even steered clear of one of her professors who wore the same cologne as John had. So many things still stirred her emotions, from movies they watched together, to a song on the radio that took her back to a moment they had shared. Each photograph was still in place; his clothing still hung in the closet of their bedroom. She knew it was unhealthy, but she hadn’t had the strength to deal with her emotions. She glanced down at the solid gold band still wrapped around her finger and knew it was time. Could she make new memories with someone else? Each time a man seemed interested, all she had to do was mention her children and he seemed to disappear. Her mind wandered to her thinning hair. Do men even find me attractive? What if the children hated them and her for trying to replace their father? She didn’t need that now. Her mind raced and raced, and she began to tense up just thinking about it all. Could she love again?
“I’m fine,” she said rather abruptly, and then fought back the tears that were welling up inside her. Desiree left the office with one thing on her mind; she’d focus on her goal instead. She wanted to become an attorney, to punish the man who killed her husband, to put behind bars forever the one person that stole her life. She knew where he lived. Desiree even knew where he worked. He had been careless, stupid, and downright selfish. She reasoned that anyone who would get behind the wheel of a car drunk must be all those things and worse. She didn’t know how she would pay him back, but she would die trying. He didn’t see her children’s faces as their father lay lifeless in a casket. He wasn’t there when his body was lowered into the cold hard earth.
“The bugs are down there.” Josh had said, “Don’t put my Daddy down there with the worms and spiders! Why can’t he stay in your room in his coffee?” Josh thought his father had fallen asleep and just needed time to wake up again, like the fairy tales he’d heard. What do you say to a six-year-old who’s just had his father ripped from him?
Tabitha had been too young to gather it all in. She cried for her father every night for the first three weeks. She kept asking Desiree, “When will my daddy come back?” How does one answer such questions?
Then, Tabitha began drawing pictures of him with wings hovering over everyone from heaven. Anger and rage began to well up inside of Desiree. Why should Benjamin Stewart walk the streets free just because he was a juvenile at the time of the murder? Desiree wanted her own justice. She was only waiting for his next mistake.
Benjamin had cried in the courtroom that hot August day, his arms and legs shackled inside the bright orange jumpsuit. He had pleaded his case. His words had evaporated into air. He had stolen her husband’s life and for what?
Desiree had been raised in the church. She knew the words Jesus had spoken. Her parents had taken her to Sunday school each week. She had memorized countless verses, winning prizes for her commitment to the knowledge of the word of God. “Forgive and you shall be forgiven. Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. Or was it prosecutes?” The verses and chords rang through her. The verses came across often, but she could not let go of the anger. She knew Christ’s words about forgiveness, “If you don’t forgive others, your heavenly
Father won’t forgive you of your sins.” Well, that was just a chance she’d have to take. If she rotted in hell so be it! Sometimes the pain and hatred was so bad she’d cry out to God, “How can you expect me to forgive him? Help me to want to forgive him, because I don’t want to and I think it’s unfair for you to ask me!”
The bitterness had sucked away all her joy and was tugging at her health, mentally and physically. The roots of the seed of hatred she had planted for Benjamin had begun to go down deep. She had just one goal--and that was to pay back Benjamin Stewart. She wanted him behind bars and the others who so carelessly drove drunk and took innocent lives. She wanted him to lose his life just as her husband John had lost his.
The Note
Chapter 5
Walter placed the small steel cage on the ground. In his worn coat pocket, his hands fumbled with the grains of corn and wheat for Jackie to eat. He let the grains run through his fingertips for a minute, and then he opened the door slowly and reached into the cage and placed Jackie on the ground. Jackie began to eat the seeds he had sprinkled and wandered under the shade of the trees. Walter then reached into the other side pocket of his coat for a small notebook and pen. Sometimes, he wrote notes to his deceased wife to clear his head; other times he just recorded his thoughts. On this day, he did not know what to write. He had pled for forgiveness. He had read the obituary column daily, looking for the name of his beloved wife, until the dreadful day came. He hitchhiked the three hundred miles home. Even though he swore he’d never return--he knew he had to. That had been over a year ago, but it seemed like yesterday in Walter’s mind. He had stopped at a florist, and pulled his credit card out to purchase the yellow bouquet of roses. The clerk had shook her head, saying, “This card is expired, do you have another one?” Walter had tried to explain his situation. Feeling sorry for the old man, the young girl at the counter placed a single rose in Walter’s hand. “Here sir, you can have just one for free. If I give you any more, I’ll get into trouble.”
Walter The Homeless Man Page 2
