by Inga Vesper
‘You’re getting mixed up in shit that’s gonna come back and haunt your ass. That man can’t be trusted. You want to get arrested again? You think they’re gonna let you go next time?’
She crosses her arms. ‘I’m not gonna incriminate myself.’
‘No need for that, the cops will be perfectly happy to do that for you.’
Pa appears in the doorway. He looks worried. And yet there is a glint in his eye. ‘Couldn’t hurt to keep your eyes open,’ he says. ‘If there’s a reward.’
‘It’s dangerous,’ Joseph replies. ‘And sorry, sir, but do you really think they’re gonna pay a Negro some money?’
‘I told you, I don’t care about the money.’ Ruby fidgets. Why does Pa have to get involved? This clearly ain’t the ideal scenario for a fight. ‘Joseph,’ she says, ‘let’s get out of this place. I’m boiling. Let’s get an ice cream.’
Outside, the sun is beating down so bad you could probably fry an egg on the hood of Mr Roan’s Ford. Ruby crosses Brookes and Joseph follows, the anger between them leashing their bodies together. Arguments flit through Ruby’s head like glowworms, winking out before she can catch them.
‘I gotta do it for Joyce,’ she says, when they reach Florendale. ‘She’s not a bad apple. If she’s still alive, maybe the detective can find her. She’s got kids, Joseph.’
‘Your mother had kids. Think about what happened with her.’
‘You don’t know a thing.’ She strides ahead. Her chest burns with anger, because the memory breaks open so many smoldering wounds. ‘When Momma died, Joyce was the only one who listened. ’Coz her Momma was also murdered.’
Joseph stops dead. ‘She told you that?’
Ruby shrugs. ‘Guess there was no one else in Sunnylakes who wanted to hear a thing like that. I . . . we understood each other. We knew how bad it felt and—’
‘She didn’t. Mrs Fancyhouse with her Chevrolet. You shouldn’t have said a thing.’
‘I had to tell someone. You don’t know what it was like. Pa wasn’t talking to no one. Mimi cut her arms. I had to keep it together, like, it was all on me. But Joyce really listened. She was the only one who did. We boosted each other up. She told me about her mom and I told her about Momma, and she said I should save for college and do my mother proud.’
Joseph scoffs. ‘Yeah, while she got to sit in her house by her pool, doing nothing all day. Because she had you laboring for her. Some sort of friendship that is. You should hear what Leroy has to say about your dependency. At my committee—’
‘Did you know Joyce went to a committee, too?’ Ruby interjects. ‘But one for women. Where they learn how to do for themselves.’
‘And a fat lot of good it did to her.’
‘Joseph.’
‘She ain’t no model for you.’
They have reached the ice cream parlor. Ruby feels in her pocket for cash and finds a crisp five dollar bill from the money Mr Haney handed out this morning. Joseph’s hand also flies to his pocket, but comes up empty. He bites his lip and gazes over Ruby’s head.
‘Don’t really feel like something cold,’ he says.
She knows what that means. She could treat him, of course. Take out those five dollars and say, Hey, baby, it’s on me today. But somehow, that is not an option. So she answers: ‘Yeah, me neither.’
They walk back. All the while, Ruby wracks her head about how to make him see. He’s right, of course. Joyce’s and her life were so far apart the gap could never be bridged. But they had stuff in common, too. Things they both wanted and couldn’t get. Dreams that kept going unfulfilled.
‘Imagine you let girls join in with your committee,’ she says. ‘Like the women in Sunnylakes. That would be a thing.’
‘That would be crazy, Rubes.’
‘But Tamona gets to go.’
‘Tamona’s Leroy’s sister. And she ain’t no model for you, either.’
‘Maybe not, but where’s my committee? You think you got it all fixed up, just repeating whatever Leroy says. But I ain’t learning from no one what to do.’ She balls her fists. ‘I got to find my own way.’
‘Your way is the wrong way.’
‘And yours is better?’ Ruby has started to holler, and she doesn’t care if people are looking. ‘You always wanna change things but what have you done to change? I’m just trying to get somewhere, so I don’t end up like Momma, working away all her life and dying in the street like a dog.’
Joseph shakes his head. His eyes remain dark. They make Ruby feel like she’s just tried to kill a house fire by dowsing it with gasoline.
‘I want to stop being just the help,’ she says, and her voice cracks on her lips. ‘I wanna be someone.’
‘Some what? You think you gonna be an aeronautics engineer, Miss Smartypants? You gonna be a congress-woman? You gonna be president?’
‘I’m gonna be a teacher.’ She folds her arms. ‘A science teacher. Like Mrs Cannon.’
‘That what the Haney lady told you?’ He scoffs. ‘Seems like she failed to mention that you’ll be teaching a Black school with no funding. Educating kids for jobs they’ll never get. She may have been sweet to you, Ruby, but that’s not enough. That white woman never actually helped you. Not one bit.’
‘Well, sadly, there ain’t no Black man helping me, neither.’
As soon as the words slip out she wants to take them back. But she can’t. Joseph’s face hardens and something in his eyes, something incredibly vulnerable, flares up and winks out.
‘Joseph,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Do what you want.’ His voice is dead-flat. ‘But don’t come crawling back to me when that detective slams your ass in jail and your lovely boss ties a noose for you to go up on a tree.’
And then he turns and walks away.
Ruby stands on the sidewalk, hot and heavy and ready to scream. You can’t say that . You bastard. You don’t say something like that to me.
But instead of speaking, she sits down on the sidewalk and cries until the sun starts to set and the street grows busy with shouting and strange faces.
*
The next day, Mr Haney pays her no attention. His mother is coming down, so he’s pouring over the map to figure out his route to the airport, while snapping at the girls and wondering where to get fresh flowers in this god-awful heat.
Finally, he manhandles both girls into his car and drives away, leaving Ruby to finish up.
This is her chance to look around. While dusting the shelves in the spare bedroom, she lets her eyes wander from the black-and-white sofa bed to the pale blue carpet and the silver vase, curved like a rocket ship.
And she realizes, for the first time, how truly alien this house is. Everything inside it looks like a page in a catalog. It’s hard to imagine that Joyce chose these things, that she went to a store and pointed at that vase and said, ‘Yep, sir, that’s the one.’ It’s like the house is trying to convince you of perfection from the outside in. An imitation of happiness.
Only, imitation is not the real thing. It strikes her then, the secret behind Joyce’s smile and her desire to be friends. Joyce was not happy. She thinks too of the stains on Mrs Ingram’s sheets. She wonders if that was the last thing she thought of, before someone left a pool of blood on her kitchen floor.
Ruby lifts a few pillows, gingerly opens a couple of drawers and even leafs through a book stamped with the Sunnylakes Library emblem. But she finds nothing of interest.
How do you do what a detective does? How do you find the truth? She’ll need to educate herself. A book might hold the answer. That’s what her teacher Mrs Cannon used to say. When you’re stuck, find a book.
She tidies up and leaves the house. On the sidewalk, she thinks it over. There is no library in South Central. The one in Watts is too small to have the kind of book she needs. But there is one person who can probably help. Mrs Cannon herself.
*
She walks down Makee Avenue and checks her nails. Which is silly. She’s an adult now and no te
acher has a right to ask her any dumb questions about keeping clean. Then again, she was in school longer than she’s been out of it, and Mrs Cannon has a way of instilling things so that they never leave you.
The house she is looking for is a small bungalow with a well-kept lawn and an iron fence badly in need of a paint job. The windows have proper curtains, which are always drawn, turning the front room into a red-and-yellow tinted cave of wonders. She’s only been inside a few times, but they were always magical hours.
She runs her fingers along the name written underneath the doorbell, Laureen Cannon, and cannot quite bring herself to ring. Perhaps she isn’t even home. Maybe she’s still at Parkland, marking papers.
But then she hears muffled footsteps, and the door is flung open by a small, round woman with gold-framed glasses and a stern top knot.
‘Ruby Wright, if I am not mistaken. Now there’s a surprise.’
‘Mrs Cannon. I . . . How’s . . .’
‘You come inside, first. What can I get you?’
Ruby follows her through the hallway, past a floor-length mirror. Lucky-loo that she’s wearing a Sunnylakes outfit today, drab and dour. Mrs Cannon does not approve of bright shorts and bangles, and she has a way of letting you know.
The living room is just like Ruby remembers it. Tidy and neat, with wooden furniture and bookcases on every wall. Books are piled up on a table beside the couch. More books stand on the windowsill. The room smells of paper and peach water.
Mrs Cannon goes to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water. ‘What are you reading?’
The question catches her off guard. ‘I’m working now,’ she says quickly. ‘Ain’t got much time for—’
‘There’s always time to read. So?’
‘I read the papers and stuff. But actually, that’s why I am here. I need a book.’
‘Surely you’re capable of filling out a form for a library card.’
‘Yeah, but this is the sort of book you can’t get in any library. It’s about criminal stuff. Like, interview techniques . . . Mrs Cannon, can you keep a secret?’
Mrs Cannon nods. Ruby tells her about Joyce and the detective. Not everything, but enough to make her former teacher pinch her chin.
‘And now you want to play at being in law enforcement?’ There is a hint of scorn in Mrs Cannon’s eyes. ‘That’s quite the . . . aspiration.’
‘No.’ Ruby takes a sip of water. ‘Actually, I want to become a teacher.’
There is a moment of silence, with just the street noise filtering through the curtains. Then Mrs Cannon swallows. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah . . . because of you. You were a great teacher.’
‘I’m flattered, but what does that have to do with your friend’s disappearance?’
‘Well, I thought you could help me, because you always helped us so much when you brought us in for detention.’
‘It was supposed to be a punishment, Miss Wright.’
‘Yeah, but honestly, like . . .’ She dares a smile. ‘It was really for our education, wasn’t it? Like, to make us appreciate learning new things. Challenging ourselves. Looking stuff up and questioning everything and . . . My pa always says the world ain’t changing. And my mom used to say it, too. But coming here changed my world. That’s why I want to be a teacher.’
‘To change the world?’
‘Well . . . yeah.’ And she won’t even need a stupid committee to do it.
Mrs Cannon blinks twice. She takes her glasses off, then puts them on again. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need a book on investigative police techniques. You can get me one, can’t you? I . . . I can pay.’
‘What makes you think I have access to such books?’
‘You know people at universities, right? Like, at Black colleges. Where they have all the books.’
‘I’d rather you check the local library.’ Mrs Cannon stares at her waterglass. ‘I’m sure they can provide . . .’ But then something happens behind her eyes. She flexes her hands and bites her lip as if to stifle a roar of anger.
‘To hell with it,’ she murmurs. ‘Lord forgive me, here I am sounding like the goddamn board of education and all I’m doing is insulting your intelligence. But for the record, I think what you’re doing is dangerous.’
‘Not if I know how to ask the right questions. I need to help Joyce. I feel like I can find things out there that no one else can.’
‘I see.’
Mrs Cannon hesitates, but just for a moment. Then she grabs a piece of paper and a pen. Ruby has to bite down her grin. She’s won.
Mrs Cannon writes for a bit. ‘I have a friend at Howard who can help. And perhaps Anthony at West Virginia State . . . I will get something sent to you.’ She puts down the pen. ‘And how far have you gotten with your plan of teaching?’
‘Still saving up for college,’ Ruby says, and the brightness of her voice catches in her throat.
‘How’s that going?’
‘It’s hard, kinda. My pa says it’s not gonna happen.’ It’s out before she can stop herself.
But Mrs Cannon’s face does not slip, and that’s why she is so fantastic. ‘You have to make it happen. I have faith in you, Ruby. That’s why I used to invite you here. I have faith.’ She rises and walks over to the bookcases. After a little bit of searching, she pulls one out and presses it into Ruby’s hand.
‘There, that’s a start.’
Ruby stares at the title. Critical Pedagogy – Teaching the Way from Disadvantage to Freedom.
‘You make good use of that,’ Mrs Cannon says, and takes her glasses off to clean them.
Chapter Seventeen
Joyce
T
he girls are sleeping and I lean the door to, but not without taking one last look. Barbara has a twist in her mouth that makes her look like Lucille, my mother-in-law. If only Frank could see how very much his daughter takes after his family.
That was my first mistake. I had Barbara, a girl. Then I had another, but by the time Lily came around I had made so many more mistakes that both Frank and I had stopped counting.
I shut the door completely.
The paints in the closet are calling me. But the kitchen must come first. I obliterate all traces of lunch, scrub the surfaces and spray a little King Pine. By the time Ruby arrives I will be gone, and I don’t want her to find a messy house. We have some laughs together, her and I, and we’ve cried together, too, over our mothers who were killed by men who saw them as trash. I told Ruby things I never told anyone. That she does not have to forgive, that she should be angry over the injustice of it all. That she is allowed to hate.
Ruby has been happy as of late. She’s in love, and from what she’s divulged he’s a decent fellow who treats her nicely. Until a few weeks ago, I hated to see young girls in love. I wanted to strangle them. Which is, of course, entirely irrational, and rather disquieting.
Then Jimmy called.
After the fire, when I came to live with Mother and Father, everything was gray. The years blended together like LiteBake, and tasted just as bland. I was praying and cleaning and getting punished. Until I started college.
Jimmy wasn’t exactly a student, but he was part of the student crowd. We started talking. Then we started kissing. Then we started driving, and soon we got to the back seat.
I did not want to, at first, but Jimmy kept insisting. He said that only frigid girls held back these days and how could he be sure I really loved him if I didn’t let up? So I did.
And here I made another mistake. I liked it. I liked his kisses and the way he clasped me around the waist to get me in position and I wanted it when he pushed. I really, really did. And afterward, I wanted more. I went back to him and did not care about the Bible and Mother and a wedding ring.
Jimmy, I should add, also went back to me.
He abandoned me, too. Before I married, and during my marriage as well. But he always came back. No matter how far his jobs would take
him from Philly, no matter how many girls surrounded him – bar girls and his friends’ girls and army girls – he always came back to me.
Which reminds me, I must get myself ready. There are only a few hours left. I run to the bathroom and open the faucets. In the bedroom, I fling my clothes away. It makes me giggle. Naked as Eve, nothing left to grieve, all just make-believe.
The bathwater is hot but I submerge myself regardless. I want to feel heat on my skin, the heat of his breath, his body pressing onto mine, the forbidden fire that Mother tried to kill with prayer and the doctors quell with medication. But the fire still roars in me, and with the afternoon approaching, I cannot wait any longer. It wants to be fanned. My fingers dance across my breast already, each touch a spark of flame.
Oh, Frank, it was never like this with you. I felt guilty about that, for many, many years. But then you stayed away when you shouldn’t have and the guilt died, along with everything else that ever was between us.
Mother called me a hussy and a whore but there were only ever two men in my life. Jimmy and Frank. Shimmy and crank. You dally, you choose, you win and you lose.
One last afternoon and everything will change. I run my hands along my thighs like Jimmy used to do. My head arches back for a kiss that will not come. My palm nestles between my legs, where secrets pulse in anticipation.
Genevieve is right. I don’t need a man. I can break myself quite joyfully.
Chapter Eighteen
Mick
M
ick slurps a soda and puts his feet on the desk. The answer feels so close, but . . . The sleepsuit, the women’s committee, Joyce’s sudden love of painting. There is a secret there that he is unable to see. He might have to get Mrs Crane to hand over all her records, the details of all art teachers that ever showed up at their meetings, the names of anyone who can shed light on what goes on in Sunnylakes. The doctors.
But to do this, he’d have to ask Murphy for permission. And just as he contemplates that particular avenue of pleasure, the chief ’s voice comes bellowing down the corridor.
Tentatively, Mick peers around his office door. Murphy is swinging a verbal branding iron at two officers, one of which is Hodge. Or, as they say down here, he’s laying down the laaarw .
