Drowning Ruth

by Christina Schwarz

  Amanda sat stunned as much by her silence as by his misunderstanding. Why wasn't she telling him the truth? His face, closer than she was used to seeing it as he sat there beside her on the davenport, looked different, as if it belonged to a stranger who only resembled him around the eyes.

  “I realize what you've done for me and my daughter,” he was saying. “I know you gave up your nursing that you worked so hard for. It's not every sister who would do that. And I know it's far more than I can ever hope to repay. But I'm at least going to do my part from now on.”

  He'd not understood at all, she thought. There'd been no communication of the spirit, no seeing into her soul. And now she was letting him think Mattie … oh, poor Mattie. Poor Carl. And along with pity and shame, she felt a trickle of outrage, shameful in itself, that she played only the most peripheral of parts in this version of events. “Carl,” she began. My daughter, he'd said, as if Ruth were his alone. Repay, he'd said, as if they were involved in some sort of transaction, as if she'd not lived every minute there with her Ruth for love. How tightly his fingers held the fragile bones of her wrist—should they make her feel safe or terribly afraid? Say it, she told herself, say it. She put her hand on his to make him listen, and her scar smiled up at her. “It wasn't your fault,” she made herself say. “It wasn't Mathilda's fault. It was my fault. I let her go.”

  Of course that hadn't explained anything, Amanda admitted to herself the next week, after Carl had gone to Sheboygan to meet the Rebecca Rae. He'd only patted her, uncomprehending, and told her again how grateful he was to her for raising Ruth, and she'd been seized so violently by choking sobs, she'd been unable to go on. So it was worse now than ever before. She'd as good as lied, now, letting him believe the worst about Mattie. Only her vow to reveal the entire truth the very next time the ship docked in Milwaukee comforted her enough so that she could fall asleep at night. Although, with the reassurance of morning, she always recognized that promise as futile.

  In the meantime, Carl sent postcards from places like Gary and Duluth that Ruth hoarded in a box that had once held paper collars.

  “Where was it the last one was from?” Amanda would ask, deferring to Ruth when people inquired about Carl.

  And when she replied Sault Ste. Marie or Green Bay, they snapped their tongues against the roofs of their mouths and shook their heads. “That's a man likes to see the world,” they'd say, as if turning circles around the Great Lakes was somehow exotic and suspect. Ruth hardly listened. She'd begun to realize that people always had to say something.

  Ruth kept her box of postcards in the house on the island. She liked to look at them there, where she didn't have to share them with Amanda, where the smell of his cigarettes lingered and the crazy patches of light on the floor reminded her of how he'd peeled the boards from the windows. On a map, she located each city from which he'd sent a card and memorized the facades and the vegetation in the picture, believing, although she knew it was unreasonable, that if he didn't return she'd somehow be able to trace him with such crumbs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amanda

  People ask about my hand, not just Ruth, but people who have no business wondering. They point; they look aghast. It's amazing what people think they have a right to know.

  “What's that?” they say. “Is that a bite? Who bit you?” My hand could've been bitten at the hospital, back when I was treating those soldiers. You can't imagine how fierce people can be when they're crazy with fear, when they know they're going to die, when they believe you're an angel pushing them toward the grave.

  Carl never asked. I think he didn't want to know what could turn a person into an animal.

  “Hot enough for you?” Ray asked, passing Ruth one of the drinks he'd carried back to the table.

  “Mmm,” she agreed. She took a tiny sip of the whiskey sour while he settled into a chair. She nodded and kept her smile fixed. She could think of nothing to say.

  “Certainly is hot,” she said finally.

  He beamed, grateful. “Certainly is!” He stood as Imogene approached the table. “Hot enough for you?”

  “Never!” Imogene said, and she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor with a shimmy, as a private wave rolled off her fingertips toward Ruth.

  Ruth and Imogene had gone dancing every Friday night since the new dance pavilion opened that June of 1937. The pavilion was a platform at the edge of the lake, and when the band was playing, the water carried the music for miles. The summer people, who had cottages or mansions along the lake, depending not so much upon what they could afford but on their idea of what a summer place should be, came to the dances by boat, but Imogene and Ruth, who were “lifers,” as Imogene said, came in the Lind-grens' Ford.

  “You know you've got a big run up the back of your leg? You better go back in and change,” Imogene had said that evening when she picked Ruth up.

  But Ruth didn't have another presentable stocking and so the two of them sat there for a minute, examining the run, trying to decide if it was really all that noticeable. Ruth twisted it a bit to get a better look and then—zip—of course, it went all the way up and spread out a bit, too.

  She pulled the stockings off—she hated the hot things anyway—and tossed them into the back seat. She rolled the window down as far as it would go and felt the breeze on her skin as they drove.

  It was hot. Ray was right, if unoriginal. And the velvety, humid air of the dance pavilion was drenched in scent—smoke and cheap fruity perfume, lipstick, shampoo and sweat layered over honeysuckle, grass and gasoline fumes rising from the boats' motors. Ruth's bare legs, which had felt almost racy in the car, now made her self-conscious. When they were crossed, a slick of sweat formed between the top of one thigh and the underside of the other. She tried to keep them beneath the table as much as possible.

  These occasions were a trial for her, even though she knew she ought to enjoy them the way everyone else did. The new pavilion was all anyone talked about at Brown's Business College, and though Ruth had dreaded it from the moment she first heard the idea, Imogene made clear she'd have to go.

  “Of course you'll go!” Imogene had been taking mental inventory of her dresses, trying to determine whether she needed to petition her parents for something new. “Think of the possibilities, Ruth. Everyone will be there. Bobby Hanser and Harold Koch and all those summer people.”

  Bobby Hanser and Harold Koch were a couple of the boys Imo-gene talked to sometimes, when they came into the shop before a day of fishing. But they were definitely not, she explained to Ruth, the fishing type.

  “They're sailors,” she said proudly, “members of the yacht club. They were talking about racing their A-boats. And they have iceboats, too, I bet.”

  “What's an A-boat?”

  “The big ones, I think. I'm pretty sure.” Imogene and Ruth had often admired those grand boats when they flocked on Sunday afternoons. They strung out in the fresh wind to cover almost the whole of the lake, pushing the smaller boats, the fishermen and dinghy sailors, to the edges.

  “I'd like to ride on one of those,” Ruth often said, and Imogene, who appreciated not only their grace but the gracious leisure they implied, agreed.

  From the shore, they gazed through Amanda's binoculars, keeping track of their favorite boats by the numbers on their sails. Imo-gene liked V7, whose deck was sky blue, although she rooted loyally for Bobby's yellow one, as well, but Ruth preferred a sea-foam-green boat.

  “That's Arthur Owens,” Imogene said, and through the binoculars Ruth could see, when he turned his head, the string that would keep his glasses from falling into the lake.

  So that Imogene could get to know Bobby and Harold and their friends better, maybe even go with one of them, maybe even marry one—who knew?—Ruth, every Friday for the last four weeks, had put on her good dress, the one Aunt Mandy had made for her three years ago.

  Aunt Mandy disapproved of the dances. “Why do you want to talk to all those strange bo
ys?” she'd asked that evening from the bathroom doorway. “I know your father wouldn't like it.”

  Ruth had climbed onto the toilet cover to see as much of herself as possible in the mirror over the sink. “All right,” she said to Amanda, as she stepped back to the floor with a heavy thump, “I won't talk.” She began to arrange her hair, but when the comb caught in a knot and slipped from her fingers, she sighed, exasperated. “I'm only going for Imogene anyway.”

  “Here. Let me.” Amanda picked up the comb and used it deftly to twist Ruth's hair this way and that. She pinned it roughly, not taking care to avoid Ruth's scalp, but the effect was nice. “Such beautiful hair,” Amanda said, “just like your mother's. Aren't you glad you listened to me and didn't cut it just because of some silly fashion?”

  Aunt Mandy didn't need to worry about strange boys, Ruth thought now, savoring the sweet and sour tingle of her drink. Boys and girls, both, were interested in talking only to Imogene. They pulled her away from Ruth, as soon as the two of them walked in, and hung on her words, the back feet of their chairs poised inches above the wooden floor, as they leaned toward her, offering lighted matches, pink punch, scraps of gossip, whispering “Did ya hear” and “Did ya get a look,” glancing furtively over their shoulders at the objects of their stories. Ruth leaned back in her own chair with her sweating glass and her fixed smile and listened as well as she could to the music.

  When Bobby Hanser suddenly appeared, Ruth watched Imo-gene pretend to be surprised, pretend to need coaxing, and finally take his hand and, with practiced skill, lead him to the very center of the floor. Amanda was wrong—her father would like this place, Ruth thought, watching Imogene and Bobby fox-trot and remembering the happy night of the phonograph, although there'd been no more of that in the short weeks when he came home, while the Rebecca Rae was docked in Milwaukee or Chicago. If her mother were alive, he'd want to take her dancing. It would be nice, Ruth thought, with a little pain in her throat, if someone wanted to take her like that. But she tossed her head. Who, anyway, did she want as a beau? Certainly none of these. It occurred to her then, as it usually did about this time, that she could make a trip to the ladies' room. No one would notice if she disappeared for a little while.

  She made her way between the tables and around the dance floor, dodging elbows, saying “Excuse me” and “Pardon me,” and when bodies would not notice and did not budge, turning herself sideways to squeeze between them. A girl pealed sudden laughter into her ear; a man stepped back, grinding his heel into her toe; gauzy dresses swirled; necks were damp with sweat; the music and the voices tangled exuberantly. Ruth pushed open the door marked DOES and slipped inside.

  In the cool and nearly quiet room Ruth went directly to the little bench, padded in shiny pink fabric, that was pushed against one wall under the windows, convenient for any female who might feel a bit faint and require a quiet spot to recover. She kicked off her shoes, tucked her feet under her, and pulled a novel from her handbag. She would finish this chapter, no more, and then go back out and keep up appearances.

  She'd only read a paragraph when the door burst open, admitting a torrent of noise and two girls Ruth knew by sight as members of Bobby Hanser's set. They gave Ruth barely a glance before one went into a stall and the other leaned over the sink so that her face was only inches from the mirror and pushed her hair off her forehead to get a close look at her skin. She frowned at her reflection.

  “She's a forward little thing, isn't she?” the girl in the stall said over the sound of streaming water.

  “I don't know, Zita. He asked her to dance is what I saw.”

  “That's what she wants you to see. I know her type.” After a moment she added, “You can smell it on her, didja notice?”

  “Smell what?”

  “Eau de grub.”

  “I'll take your word for it,” said the other girl. She opened a compact and dusted some powder over her cheeks.

  “It's too bad we can't bottle it, sell it to the locals.”

  “Bobby seems to like it.”

  The toilet flushed and Zita emerged and joined her friend at the sink. “Oh, you know Bobby and his summer flings. When it's hot, he likes anything in a skirt. He was going on the other day about how cute she was in her little apron, pulling worms out of the dirt by their tails. Isn't that the limit?” As she washed her hands, she leaned toward the mirror and bared her teeth.

  “Oh, he's fickle all right. I should know.” The other girl crossed her arms.

  “Where do I put this?” Zita said, holding up the towel she'd used to dry her hands.

  “Give it to her, I guess,” her friend said, tilting her head at Ruth as she started out.

  Working her way back to her table, Ruth found herself pushed toward the edge of the room until she was almost squashed against the screen that ran all the way around the pavilion to discourage mosquitoes. Below, the waves washed against the pilings, with a rhythm as steady as breathing. She looked out across the dark water and longed for her father to be there, skimming along the slick of moonlight in the rowboat, his arms pulling, his head turning to look over his shoulder to gauge his distance. He wouldn't care about all these other people. He would be coming just for her.

  When Ruth turned back she realized with a start that Arthur Owens was looking at her from across the floor. It wasn't nice of him to notice her like that, adrift and obviously alone, obviously uninteresting to everyone else in the room. When had she begun to care about things like that? she asked herself angrily, frowning at Arthur. He was leaning against the railing, talking to the two girls she'd seen in the ladies' room. What had they told him about her? Quickly, she pressed on toward her table.

  Imogene and Bobby were trying a sequence in which he spun her right and then left while she stepped together, stepped together, step, step, stepped together backward. It was something they'd seen Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers doing, but it turned out to be harder than it looked. Ruth observed that now Imogene had caught Arthur's attention, although he tried to concentrate on his conversation. She saw him laugh and nod, but continue to glance whenever he could in Imogene's direction. Ruth, safe in her seat again, examined him as carefully as she could without being obvious—Imogene would want to know every detail.

  One of the women he'd been talking to, the one who'd given Ruth her towel, stepped forward suddenly, grabbing his hand to pull him onto the floor. He was just reaching to set his glass on the rail to follow her when Bobby spun Imogene so that she careened full force into his outstretched arm.

  Everyone looked dazed for a moment and then there was a flurry of napkins. Imogene and Arthur and Bobby were laughing. The woman who had intended to dance looked less pleased. Ruth, who'd been watching all of this as if it were a play, was a little flustered when she realized that Imogene was leading the entire group toward her table.

  “This is Bobby,” Imogene announced to the table at large. “And this is his cousin, Tom, and Zita and Kitty, and this is Arthur,” she said, her hand on his arm. And then, beginning with Ruth, she named everyone at the table. “Now we've all been formally introduced.”

  Arthur smiled at Ruth and she blushed. Did he know she'd been studying him?

  “Would you believe I shot a 76 out there today?” Bobby announced to the table at large as he sat down. Several of the others acted suitably impressed and began to offer their best games for comparison. Ruth was not surprised, however, that Imogene soon dominated the table, although she had never set foot on a golf course. Then Bobby danced with Zita and Arthur danced with Imogene.

  “Now you'll want to dance with Ruth,” Imogene, fanning her face with both hands, announced to Arthur when they returned to the table.

  “No, let's go out on the boat,” Bobby said.

  “One dance,” Arthur said, and held his hand out to Ruth.

  Ruth would rather not have danced, and she made a face at Imo-gene over her shoulder as Arthur led her to the floor. After all, if he'd wanted to dance with her, he would ha
ve asked her himself. But Imogene was already telling Tom one of her stories, sweeping her hands through the air so that her bangles jingled, tipping her head so that her rippling curls brushed her shoulders. Ruth gave up and turned to face her partner.

  “Hot, isn't it?” she said.

  Arthur was easy, relaxed. He held out his hand to her. He smiled. He looked at her through his round glasses as if she were the one he had wanted from the start.

  It was only a fox trot, but Ruth couldn't get the hang of the music. She tried to touch him lightly, to rest her hand soft as a moth on his shoulder, but she couldn't quite match his rhythm, and she had to cling to him, heavy and awkward, as he flung her to and fro, her hair loosening alarmingly with every jolt.

  But then something happened. Maybe it was only that the heat and the drink overwhelmed her at last. She was still clinging to him, but now she moved with him, flexible, smooth as oil. She let him draw her close until they fitted together. She let him steer her and forgot herself. She spun and threw her head back and watched the ceiling turn; she listened to the music and let her feet jump and slide whenever they pleased. And her smile was not fixed.

  When the dance was over and he'd led her back to the table, Ruth looked around in confusion; she couldn't remember which chair had been hers or where she'd left her bag. Bobby rose, pushing his chair back with his knees. “How about that spin in the Chris Craft now? We'll have to keep the speed down in the dark, but it's still a good ride.”