by Inga Vesper
‘Yes, Mrs Estrada.’
Ruby fishes a nickel from Pa’s jacket and squeezes past Mrs Estrada into the hallway. She realizes only halfway up the stairs that she’s still in her towel. Mrs Estrada, of course, notices it, too.
‘Ten ay-ehm, girl, and you’re not even dressed. And who’s talking with your papi? You got a man staying over? If your mother knew. She’s not dead a year and you’re already giving it up to—’
‘No, Mrs Estrada. No men. I just took a shower.’ Only half a lie.
Mrs Estrada lords over the building’s only telephone and makes most of her money with other people’s phone calls. Her telephone sits on a table in a little alcove. Now it is unhooked, the receiver lying next to the Mexican bowl where you put your nickel.
Ruby picks up the receiver. ‘Yes, Ruby Wright?’
‘Hello, Frank Haney here.’
Ruby’s heart skips. What could he possibly want? He’s got no business calling. The police let her go.
‘I found your number in Joyce’s address book,’ he says. ‘When do you normally come in?’
‘Monday, Wednesday and Friday,’ Ruby says. Her voice is not quite stable. ‘At 5 p.m.’
‘Oh.’ Mr Haney sounds annoyed. ‘Make it earlier today. The police are finished in the house and, well . . .’ He makes a sound like the squeak of a puppy. ‘It’s very messy. The kitchen . . . I don’t want the children to see. I’ll pay you overtime.’
Ruby inhales. ‘How much?’
‘Two dollars an hour. That should be enough, I think.’
His words thunk the air out of Ruby’s chest. Two dollars. That’s . . . That’s like . . . Mrs Ingram only pays her sixty cents.
‘You still there?’ says Mr Haney. ‘Look, I understand your reticence. For today, I’ll give you a ten dollar bonus. It’s a . . . disagreeable job.’
Ruby digs her hands into the knot of towel above her chest. College just jumped a little bit closer. ‘Yes, Mr Haney. That’s all right. I’ll jump on the bus right now.’
‘Make it quick.’ He hangs up without saying goodbye.
Mrs Estrada gives Ruby a look that’s pure curiosity, varnished with a layer of contempt. ‘Who that?’
‘A man.’ Suddenly, Ruby feels like being fresh. ‘He wants me.’
‘You gonna go see him? Shame on you, girl. What would your mother—’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Estrada.’ At the door, she turns around and juts out her hip. ‘I’m getting paid. Hourly rate, you know?’
*
Back in her room, there’s a problem. Her uniform is still soaking in a bowl of suds. And she’s got only the one. Plus, she doesn’t want to be alone in the house with Mr Haney in a skirt. So, she picks a blouse that makes her look like a church girl and some dark pants. Flat shoes round it off, but she cannot resist putting her plastic butterfly clasp in her hair. Two dollars an hour and ten dollars extra today. Come Saturday, she’ll be halfway to college.
When she emerges, Joseph raises his eyebrows at the sight of her. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To work,’ she says, trying her best to sound nonchalant. ‘Can I have the newspaper, for the bus?’
‘Work where? That Funnylakes lady said she doesn’t want you no more.’
She stuffs the front page of the LA Times into her purse. ‘Got another job. Or, more like, got my hours extended.’
‘At the Haney place?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just you wait.’ With two steps he’s by her side and grasps her arm. ‘Are you crazy to go back there? You barely got away with it last time.’
‘Got away with what? I’ve done nothing.’
‘Yeah, but they don’t care about that.’
‘You gotta let me go,’ she says with emphasis. ‘I got work to do.’
‘Ruby, you’re crazy.’
‘I’m not crazy. I need money. He’s paying more than anyone.’
‘I swear, if you’re going—’
‘Then what? Joseph, I got plans, too.’ She arches her back to face him. ‘I got money to earn. I got to pay for my teacher training. College starts in autumn. I need five hundred dollars. You see them falling from a tree?’
‘Then do sewing. Or piecework. Stuff you can do from home.’
‘No.’ Something’s pushing in her chest. She can’t quite describe it, but she needs to be on the bus now, and Joseph’s hand off her arm.
‘Joseph,’ she says. ‘You stay out of my business. I want to be working. In a real job. You said us folks are still shackled – well, don’t you go shackling me as well.’
That, of course, shuts him up.
Chapter Nine
Ruby
B
y the time the bus arrives, Ruby is regretting her words. Joseph means right by her. Hell, some men send their girls to white folks and take all the money they bring home. Some pimp them out at the truck stop or in the side streets off the Harbor Freeway. Some men laugh at the way the white bosses feel up their sisters and joke over the bruises the white wives inflict when the feeling-up gets too obvious. Joseph would never do that. He cares.
To take her mind off it all, she unfolds the paper and begins to read. The police have no leads on what happened to Joyce. There’s an appeal for anyone who might have seen her to contact Santa Monica PD, who’ll pay a handsome reward for information that helps solve the case.
Fortunately, the article doesn’t mention Ruby’s arrest. She wonders if she has Detective Blanke to thank for that. Or maybe the police didn’t want to admit they had locked up a Negro and then let her go.
On Roseview Drive, there is no wind between the trees and the air is white with perspiration. Joyce’s car is still parked in front of number 47, and Mr Haney’s black Chrysler is in the garage. Ruby hears a child scream and glances toward Mrs Ingram’s house. Nothing’s moving behind the curtains or in the yard, but the child’s wail is unmistakable. Lily, crying for her mother.
Her heart suddenly heavy, she walks up the drive and knocks on the door. Mr Haney opens it. His hair is disheveled and his eyes jumpy. He looks right past her face and ushers her in quickly, his lips crimped as if he’s worried the neighbors might see.
‘The sooner you can get it done, the better,’ he says. ‘Nancy has the kids, but she’s been taking care of them for a while and I don’t want to impose any longer.’ He waves toward the kitchen door, which is closed. ‘In there. Don’t open any drawers and stay out of the bedroom. Let me know when you’re done. I’ll be watering the lawn.’
He fumbles with his cuff links, tiny black circles with a white line around them, like the wheels on his car. Once he’s rolled up his sleeves, he goes into the living room, takes the phone off its little table by the couch and sets it down on the floor as near to the garden doors as possible.
When Ruby walks into the kitchen, her hands are clammy. The sight isn’t nearly as bad as it was before. The blood has darkened, and now looks more messy than frightening. But still . . . Joyce would hate it; she loved her kitchen sparkling clean.
Well. Time to sort it out for her return.
She ties an old tea towel around her waist as a makeshift apron. There are five aprons in the cupboard, all nicely starched and with jolly polka-dot patterns. Joyce would always give her one, but somehow she senses that Mr Haney would go ape if she simply helped herself.
The blood is hard and sticky. Two days of summer heat have left it caked to the tiles like nail polish. It requires a soak, and then a lot of scrubbing. Ruby gets some on her fingers. There are gloves on the sink but, again, they’re probably not hers to use. Every time she wrings out the cloth, the water in the bucket goes more red. The scent of King Pine and something else, something alive and fetid, fills the air. She wipes her hands on the tea towel, leaving a pink mark, and opens the back door.
Outside, the air is trembling with heat. The pot of geraniums taking pride of place on the terrace is looking quite the worse for wear. The flowers are hanging their heads. A few petals have already t
urned brown.
A pang echoes through Ruby’s heart. These flowers are Joyce’s pride and joy. She waters and prunes them every day, and she’s told Ruby on more than one occasion how much she loves them, that they must always be taken care of. It would be a shame if Joyce came back and found them dead.
Ruby tips the bloody water into the sink, fills the bucket and empties it gently over the flowers. The water shimmers like a veil. A wave of warmth rushes through her body, and for a moment she feels a presence, benevolent and grateful.
What gives? She sets down the bucket and looks around. She is alone, as expected. And yet it’s there, she’s there. Momma believed in spirits and, right now, Ruby believes in them, too. Joyce is watching. And she is thankful for the water.
A breeze strikes up and the feeling vanishes. Ruby flinches. She’s getting all worked up over this.
Back in the kitchen, she gets to work on the cupboards, which have a good deal of splatter on them. There is paper towel sticking to it, too. More paper towels sit on the counter, next to a brown beer bottle. Blue Ribbon brand.
The more she stares at it, the weirder it looks. It sits prominently in the sunlight, capless and empty. There are traces of dust along the neck and across its belly. The label looks like someone’s worried at it quite a bit.
Joyce doesn’t drink beer. Mr Haney does, probably, but she’s never seen beer in the house, unless there’s been a barbecue. And if he’d drunk this in the last few nights before Joyce went missing, she would have thrown the bottle out by now.
Slowly, she stretches out her hand and picks it up. The powdery dust picks out faint splotches. It’s been finger-printed by the police.
Her neck tingles and for a moment she feels sickness spreading in her stomach. This is a crime scene. Joyce is gone, and the Lord may keep her safe.
She stares at the fingerprints for a moment, before catching a movement from the window. It’s Mr Haney with the garden hose. Some little voice in the depth of her mind pipes up, warning that he better not spot her going over things that ought not to be her concern.
She grabs the trash can and throws the bottle inside. It disappears with a muffled thunk. She kneels back down and scrubs at the blood again, turning it into a waterfall that rushes over the kitchen tiles and pools around her knees.
*
Outside, Mr Haney switches off the water and starts talking to Nancy Ingram, who has just appeared. She is clearly angry. Their voices are growing louder. Ruby stops wiping and listens.
‘All day,’ Mrs Ingram says. ‘And last night, too. Lily . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with that kid. She doesn’t settle.’
‘The house is not ready,’ Mr Haney says firmly; he sounds as if he wants to scream. ‘Not now, Nancy. Not yet.’
Lily’s cries rise up and Mr Haney makes shushing noises.
‘Yes, now,’ says Mrs Ingram. ‘Frank, I need to go to work. I can’t stand it any longer.’
‘How do you think I feel?’
That seems to soothe her. The voices grow quiet again. Ruby commences to wipe the same spot over and over. But there is nothing else to hear.
A movement draws her attention. She turns around and nearly flips. The kitchen door opens slowly and a tiny face peers around the door frame.
It’s Barbara. Her eyes are red and tired, her hair stands up like a mop. The lace on her left shoe is untied and her dress is crinkled as if she’s slept in it.
‘Whoobie,’ she whispers.
Ruby drops the cloth into the pink water and opens her arms. Barbara stumbles into her embrace. Ruby pats her back and strokes her hair and mutters soothing nonsense. Barbara does not make a sound. She is so floppy that Ruby eventually holds her at arm’s length and looks into her eyes.
‘You OK, Barbie-baby?’
Barbara averts her face. Her gaze roves over the kitchen floor and up to the window. ‘Is Mommy back?’
‘No, not yet. You need to be patient.’
‘I wanted to help clean up.’ Barbara’s lips begin to tremble. ‘I wanted to be good. I promised I’d be good.’
‘You’re being very good, baby.’
It’s too late. Big, crystal tears form on Barbara’s eyelids and roll down her cheeks. ‘I wanted to clean,’ she squeaks. ‘I wanted to help. They made such a mess. I wanted to make it nice again for Mommy.’
‘But you see? I already made it nice,’ Ruby replies, but then she considers.
She opens the Cocoa Puffs and sprinkles a few on the floor just out of Barbara’s sight. Then she takes a clean cloth, rinses it under the faucet and hands it to the girl.
‘Look over there. I forgot that bit. You can clean it for me.’
A little smile emerges beneath Barbara’s tears. Ruby gets the kiddie apron that hangs in the cupboard and places it around Barbara’s waist. The girl gets to work, silent and scrupulous, as if she also has a boss who’ll run a gloved finger across the surfaces to check.
When they’re done, Ruby gives Barbara a glass of water, which she downs eagerly. Some of it spills over her dress, which needs changing anyway. So she takes Barbara’s hand and walks her up to the nursery.
Just at that moment, Mrs Ingram comes out of the lounge, her fiery red lips pressed into a line. She stops dead when she sees Ruby. ‘Frank,’ she shouts. ‘Come here.’
Mr Haney steps into the hallway. He has Lily on his arm and there is sweat running down his temples. ‘What are you doing?’ He frowns. ‘I’m not paying for playtime.’
‘Just getting Barbara a fresh dress.’
Mrs Ingram clicks her tongue. ‘She is still working here? Are you mad?’
‘Someone needed to clean up the . . . the kitchen.’
‘My God, Frank. Don’t even remind me. I can’t bear it.’
Mrs Ingram lets out a little moan and lifts her hand to her face. Mr Haney shifts Lily to his other hip and pats Mrs Ingram’s shoulder. But his own voice is shivering. ‘Nancy, it’s all right. She’ll be back, you’ll see.’
Mrs Ingram nods. ‘I need a drink, Frank. Shall we have a drink? Ruby can take the children, just for a bit, right?’
Mr Haney frowns a little but then hands Lily over to Ruby. ‘Just put her down . . . I don’t like to leave the phone, in case they ring.’
‘Sure thing, sir.’ Ruby does the math in her head. She can stretch bedtime to at least half an hour. It’s your money, mister.
In the nursery, she settles Lily in her bed. The girl is still crying, quiet but inconsolable, with occasional little hiccups. Ruby remembers how eagerly Barbara drank her water. Thirst. That’s what it is.
She fills up a bottle and snatches a few cookies from the kitchen. Lily downs her water with her little cheeks pumping. Barbara devours three cookies, then curls up on the floor and falls asleep. Lily doesn’t want to eat, but soon closes her eyes as well.
Suddenly, all is quiet.
Well, not quite. Voices are drifting from the living room. But the nursery is up on the mezzanine, too far away to hear.
Ruby lifts Barbara into her bed, arms herself with Barbara’s dress and goes into the bathroom, which is right at the top of the mezzanine stairs. The sink is by the door, so she can stand in the doorway and put her head out and pretend to wash the dress.
Mrs Ingram is sitting on the sofa, her back facing Ruby, while Mr Haney is pacing up and down the lounge, doing a prayer dance around the telephone. He’s holding a glass with something amber in it.
‘Do you . . . do you think she found out?’ he says.
Mrs Ingram takes a puff from her cigarette. ‘Not from me,’ she replies. ‘No, Frank. I don’t think so. How would she know?’
‘She might have seen something, or overheard . . . Hell, Nancy, maybe we made a mistake.’
‘Are you regretting it?’ Mrs Ingram’s voice is cracked, as if she’s trying to hold something down with great force. ‘Are you saying you’re regretting everything?’
‘Nancy. My wife is missing. Joyce is . . . This is not the time.’
‘He asked me whether Joyce was seeing someone. Whether she . . . Oh, I am such a damned fool.’
‘You’re not, Frank.’ Mrs Ingram gets up and lays a hand on Mr Haney’s arm. ‘She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. I know that better than anyone. She loves only her children.’
‘And me,’ Mr Haney says. ‘Joyce loves me.’
Mrs Ingram lets her hand drop from his arm. In the ensuing silence, Ruby turns up the water faucets and makes a good splash with the dress. Then she goes to the kitchen and drops it into the laundry basket.
When she returns to the hallway, Mrs Ingram is gone. Mr Haney is standing by the garden doors. The bright sunlight looks all wrong on his face, which is drawn and pale. He has turned into a ghost, and the telephone is the bell that’s gonna summon him to heaven, or to hell.
‘The children are sleeping,’ Ruby says and adds for good measure: ‘Lily was thirsty.’
He looks up, as if waking from a dream. ‘Took you long enough.’
Without further ado, he fishes a ten dollar bill and a couple of bucks from his wallet and holds them out. His hands are strong and big, broad-palmed like a farmer’s.
‘Same time tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I just . . . there’s so much to do. I might have to head into the office, and the laundry needs doing. Nan— Mrs Ingram will do some shopping. When you’re done, you can feed the kids and put them down.’
There is a little twang of warning in Ruby’s belly. She ignores it and says: ‘Of course, Mr Haney.’
The phone rings. Mr Haney all but somersaults toward it and picks it up. He waves her out, and she shuts the door behind her.
While Ruby waits for the bus, she checks her nails. There are traces of brown stuck in the grooves of her skin. She rubs them against her blouse, but the blood won’t come out that easily.
Chapter Ten
Mick
‘A
nd when, goddammit, were you going to let me know?’
