“I guess that’s why it’s even more important to know it. I mean, if we have to repeat it whether we read it or not, then we might as well read it so we know what we’re up against.”
She pondered that, nodding.
“Pretty good, right?” Joe said. “I’d better stop while I’m ahead.”
He stood up and cocked his head, listening for something. “That’s Thomas. I promised Justine I’d let her get at least one night’s sleep while she’s visiting.”
Thomas—and Reka, too—were Justine’s kids, not Joe’s, named after their parents. Ruth knew it, but for brief moments, she forgot.
She often wanted to tell him that in another life, he’d married and had his own children—his very own little Reka and even littler Thomas—but Joe had said he wasn’t ready to know anything about the him she’d known before. “It’s not a life I lost, because I never had it to begin with, from my point of view. Maybe when I’m eighty. You can tell me then.” Which meant, at least, that he believed her.
Joe stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking back at Ruth. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His hair was mussed, with flecks of leaves in it. His flannel shirt was damp with rain. Ruth was unquestionably attracted to him and kept forgetting there was nothing wrong with that. She wasn’t engaged anymore. He wasn’t married. They had more in common now than they’d once had. The last few years had at once calmed him down and riled her up.
He said, “I can tell you were about to tell me something.”
“No, you were about to tell me something.”
“I already told you: baby’s crying.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all there is. I just heard the future calling, and he’s hungry.”
The lights went out at that moment, but she had a candle and her phone.
“You take the flashlight,” Ruth said. “I can’t help?”
“You’re not on duty. Relax.”
“Joe . . .” She knew she shouldn’t delay him, but it felt important to tell him before she lost her nerve. “You’d be great with kids.”
“You kidding me? No way I could be this patient if they were mine.”
“Trust me.”
“I’m not even the marrying type.”
“You’re wrong about that.” She had a vision then, too, not at all supernatural. They should have been together. They could still be together. It was up to both of them now, and nothing stood in their way.
He held the flashlight under his chin, which made his broad face look ghoulish. “This crystal ball thing is giving me the creeps.”
“Sorry,” she said, laughing. Then he was off to tend to more important things.
For now, Ruth tries to make no big moves, but only to stay in the present, as Annie did after her final visitations to the past—and her trials against Hearst—were over.
For one of her upcoming conferences, she plans to talk about Annie Oakley’s later-in-life philanthropy, about which relatively little is known. Ruth is determined to find out more about how much money Annie donated in her later life. Maybe she can locate the names of particular women she supported, track down their descendants.
In the meantime, Ruth allows herself the pleasure of daydreaming, replacing old dark images she’d dwelled upon for so long with these new ones: eighteen or twenty young women gathered on a vast green lawn. It is the late ’10s or early ’20s. They are wearing thin, summery dresses. They are holding glasses, laughing and talking.
The orphans’ lives haven’t been easy, which is how they have come to Miss Oakley’s attention. But the women are happy at this moment—relaxed and cared for, sheltered and nourished and educated.
These details are mere speculation, but it’s speculation that will see Ruth through months of looking through grainy photos. It will lead her to ancient postcards, orphanage and school records, family trees, census notes. This was the contented phase that Annie had earned, that she had made by turning from bitterness to kindness and generosity, which is not to say she could have done this earlier in her life. She wasn’t ready for it. She had to face her own orphaned years and come as close to extinguishing her adversary as she would dare.
But the Wolf is not here in this frame. One can tell by the fearlessness of the women as they stand tall and comfortable. In the distance, a waiter drops a dish, but no one cringes. The sound of a distant car pulling up on the gravel drive makes none of these girls peer worriedly over a shoulder.
When the image starts to fade and Ruth longs to bring it back, to be sustained by it, she only has to focus on the smell of the lawn, the sounds of tinkling laughter, and most of all, the colors:
peach,
pale yellow,
ivory,
white.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book consumed more than a decade, on and off, and was written in the form of many drafts, including ones that bear no resemblance to the book in your hands. I may have forgotten some of my earliest peer readers, but I am still grateful for the time you spent. My extra appreciation to those who provided substantial feedback and encouraged me to grapple with this strange story that wouldn’t leave me alone, including Brian Lax, Tziporah Lax, Kate Maruyama, Karen Ferguson, Jennifer Ettelson Besmehn, Bill Sherwonit, Ellen Bielawski, Lee Goodman, Kathleen Tarr, Leonard Chang, Susan Taylor Chehak, Ana Veciana-Suarez, Honoree Cress, Gail Hochman and Rebecca Johnson. At Soho Press, Amara Hoshijo made this a much better book on many levels, working tirelessly even during the most tumultuous year any of us will ever collectively experience (I hope). For all they’ve done to help with this book and the ones preceding it, I am eternally gratefully to Bronwen Hruska, Juliet Grames, Paul Oliver, Rachel Kowal, Alexa Wejko, Rudy Martinez, Janine Agro and Steven Tran. Additional huge thanks to Gary Stimeling for his sharp eye and Kimberly Glyder for her cover art. Finally, I am grateful to booksellers in both the US and Canada, the latter my new home since 2017, a refuge found after a decades-long search.
Annie and the Wolves Page 36
