Drowning Ruth

by Christina Schwarz

  She'd fallen asleep fully clothed, and the hem of her dress was still damp where it had draggled in the water when she heaved the boat out. Her collar had pulled tight around her throat as she slept—perhaps that accounted for her breathlessness—and she loosened the top two buttons.

  The day had faded, but it was not yet dusk. Ruth would be home soon, if she was not already.

  “Ruth?” Amanda stood at the top of the stairs and called down. There was no answer.

  Turning, she faced herself in the landing mirror, her skin red from the sun, her hair snarled and matted, her dress wrinkled. She raised a tentative hand to her cheek. She'd never had what people called a full face, but lately her bones had become more prominent, her cheeks hollow. White wires threaded through her hair.

  What kind of a girl gets so dirty? her mother's voice said in her mind, but so clearly that she turned around, half expecting to see her standing there, holding a washcloth and a brick of her homemade lavender soap. But that would have been downstairs near the tub by the stove in the kitchen. Carl had long since put in the bathroom upstairs by walling off a corner of Ruth's room, the room Amanda and Mathilda had once shared.

  She took a fresh dress from the closet and hung it on the bathroom door. While she waited for the tub to fill, she brushed her teeth with a little baking soda, scrubbed the sink and the toilet with cleanser. In her hair, she could still catch the odor of the dead fish and weeds she'd encountered that morning. She'd have to wash it, even though it was probably too late in the day for it to dry properly.

  Slowly, she lowered herself into the tub. She hadn't realized how cold and tense she'd been, and the warm water soothed her. She lay back in it, letting her feet and hands float. Lazily, she caressed herself, her stomach and her thighs, the bones and the soft dip at the base of her throat, her breasts. Then she slid deeper, tipping her head back to soak her hair. The water rose gently, like a warm hood over the back of her head, and her hair spread around her neck and over her chest like weeds. The water covered her ears, separating her from the sounds of the air, drawing her down and under.

  Amanda sat up suddenly and struggled out of the bath, water streaming from her toes and fingertips onto the mat. Quickly, she dried herself and wrapped her hair in the towel. Then, her skin still damp, she pulled on her clothes. It was really food she needed. How long had it been since she'd eaten? She had to get some supper together. Ruth was always starving after a day wrestling with those typewriters.

  The stones in the driveway crunched and pinged as she was peeling the last potato. Amanda slipped to the window and looked out. A man, that Owens boy, Clement and not Clement, was handing Ruth out of the car. Amanda pulled the towel from her hair and tied a scarf around her head. But the car door slammed and then slammed again; the engine noises rose and fell away; and Ruth came into the kitchen alone.

  “You were with that Owens boy?” Amanda asked her, as matter-of-factly as she could manage. She lifted the lid from the pot roast, and an exhalation of steam masked her face.

  “Arthur? He gave me a ride.”

  “But not Imogene?”

  “No.”

  So now was it Ruth who had to be watched? Amanda frowned, studying the young woman's movements, as Ruth began to set the table. “Did you …” She stopped herself, not sure how to say it, “drink anything?” she finished delicately.

  “Of course not.”

  Anger, acerbic as bile, rose in Amanda at the thought of the father and son. Why would they not leave her and hers alone? But it was her own fault, she knew. Hiding and pretending, staying and lying, she had, in some sense, kept Clement Owens with her always. One night with him had become a sort of knot around which she'd grown for the last twenty years. Why should she be surprised now if, instead of dissolving, he'd doubled?

  But it would be all right, she assured herself. Summer was ending and soon they would go. She only had to wait, holding things in place, a little longer.

  Ruth was home safely, and now they would eat a well-balanced meal, Amanda told herself, spooning red cabbage onto Ruth's plate. Everything was all right, then. Everything was as it should be, she thought, surveying the table, except for one detail. “Do you think we should have applesauce, Ruth? There's some in the icebox. Why don't you get it?”

  “I don't need applesauce.”

  “Well, but I think we should have it. It's just in the icebox, in the little green dish.”

  “I really don't want applesauce tonight.”

  “But I think we should have it. Otherwise, we don't have any fruit, and fruit is very important. Let's have it on the table, at least, in case we change our minds.”

  “I want Imogene to be happy,” Ruth said, getting up from the table. “I really do.”

  No, she shouldn't talk about Imogene, not tonight, not when everything had to be kept just so. “We all want Imogene to be happy, of course. Ruth, on the top shelf, behind the milk. You know, I wonder if it'll be too cold. Do you think it is? It shouldn't be so cold that it chills the meat. Maybe we ought to heat it for a minute, so it isn't ice cold.”

  “But we were going to have our apartment!”

  “Apartment? What apartment?” Amanda pushed her chair back slightly. She felt suddenly at a disadvantage with her legs trapped under the table.

  “There is no apartment. Not anymore. Genie's going to marry Arthur Owens. He hasn't asked her yet, but he will.”

  With this jumble of strange syllables, a thickness filled Amanda's ears, followed by a ringing. She drew back from the table, shaking her head. “No,” she said firmly, almost brightly. “No, that's impossible.”

  “Aunt Mandy, what's the matter? Are you sick? Is something wrong?”

  Amanda stood up so abruptly that her chair toppled over behind her. “ We have to stop them.”

  “What are you talking about? What's the matter with you?” Ruth had come around the table, and she pressed a palm to her aunt's clammy forehead. “Maybe you should lie down. Do you want to lie down?” she asked, steering Amanda toward the front room. She tried to sound solicitous, but she was afraid. Was this why Amanda had had to go to St. Michael's? “Should I call Dr. Karbler?”

  “No! No one else, Ruth. No one else. Only you.”

  They were standing beside the old davenport now, but when Ruth tried to lower her aunt onto it, Amanda clung and pulled her down too. “Promise you'll help me, Ruth,” she whispered. “Promise.”

  “Of course I'll help you. What is it?”

  Amanda continued to whisper, as if in that way the words would not actually be spoken, but somehow pass from her to Ruth in a current of understanding. “Imogene is Clement Owens's daughter.”

  She's crazy, Ruth thought, involuntarily pulling back from Amanda, as a mixture of fear and disgust, bordering on nausea, rose in her throat. “Stop it,” she said. “What's wrong with you? Stop acting like this.” She felt an urge to slap her aunt, but Amanda began to cry then, and Ruth rubbed her shoulder instead. “Now, Aunt Mandy, you know that's silly. I don't know who told you that, but you can't credit crazy stories. Mr. Owens and Mrs. Lindgren don't even know each other. And Mrs. Lindgren would never!” A thought occurred to Ruth. “I bet I know who started this. How dare they? That nasty Zita and Kitty. They'll be sorry.”

  But Amanda had stopped crying. With fingers like claws, she gripped Ruth's shoulders and shook her. “Yo u stop it, Ruth! Look at me! Listen to me! This is no one's story but mine. No one knows it but me. Only me. I know he's Imogene's father because I am her mother. She's my baby.”

  Ruth jerked out of Amanda's grip and turned her face away, covering her ears with her hands. “Stop it! How can you say such a thing?”

  If Amanda had suddenly insisted that after all the sky was green and the grass was red, Ruth could not have been more confused, more betrayed. Now, as she turned to stare at Amanda, it was her voice that was reduced to a whisper. “But you said the baby wasn't real.”

  Ruth

  Mama's feet go back and fort
h, back and forth. Aunt Mandy makes the scary sounds. “Shh, shh,” I say, but nobody hears me. I put my head on the now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep and watch the candy stick. Aunt Mandy's shoes are watching me. I better be good now, good and quiet. “Shh, shh,” I say, but nobody listens to me. Kick, Mama's shoe on the candy stick. It rolls to me and I pick it up, pick the fur off with my fingers. It's still good, I tell myself. That's what Aunt Mandy would say to me. We don't mind a little dirt.

  Aunt Mandy makes the scary sounds. “It's all right,” Mama says. “Everything'll be all right.” But I knew that wasn't true.

  I shush and suck, shush and suck. I am good, but still the scary sounds. I wish they'd stop. “Stop,” I say, but I only whisper. “I'll be quiet. I'll be good.”

  My candy's so sharp, it bites my tongue. The blood tastes sweet, so I swallow it down. “Now I lay me down to sleep,” I say, but I stay awake.

  Mama's on the bed now too. I want to go on the bed, but I'm scared. The noises, stop the noises! And then the noises stop. “Oh, Mandy,” Mama says, “a little girl.” But the little girl is under the bed. A baby is crying, so I try crying, but it isn't me.

  “You have to tell her, Aunt Mandy.”

  They'd pushed the congealed pot roast and red cabbage, food that looked like a mass of bruises on the plates, into the slop bucket for the dogs and the pigs, and were seated at the kitchen table. Amanda had poured cups of coffee, as if they were settling down to discuss an ordinary problem.

  “No.” Amanda shook her head. She was stirring sugar into her coffee. “No, we have to think, Ruth. Think.” Her spoon went back and forth, clinking on the edges of the cup. “Imogene can never know.”

  “Think about what? How to dress for the wedding? I'm going to tell her if you won't.”

  Amanda tried speaking calmly, patiently. She kept her eyes on Ruth's face. Ruth was being unreasonable; she had to be made to see. “You don't want to do that. Think of Mary Louise. Itd kill her, Imogene finding out that way. Imogene finding out at all.” She raised her cup to her lips with nearly steady hands and sipped. She felt she'd made a good point, a strong point, one on which she could stand firm. “No, it wouldn't be fair to Mary Louise. After all, she's been a very good mother. You have to agree with me there, don't you, Ruth?”

  When Ruth said nothing, Amanda repeated her question. “You agree that Mary Louise has been an excellent mother, don't you?”

  “Yes!” Ruth said impatiently. “Yes, of course, but that's got nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, Ruth, you're not a mother yet. When you're a mother, you'll understand.”

  In exasperation, Ruth pushed her cup away so roughly that the coffee slopped onto the table.

  “Tch.” Amanda clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You're upset now, Ruth, but try to see it my way.” She rose to get the dishrag. “Think of Imogene,” she said, mopping the spill. “Think, Ruth, how you feel, knowing this. Just imagine how it would be for her—everything good ruined. Everything she believes in, spoiled for her. You love Imogene. Do you really want to tell her that this is how she came into the world? You have to think of what's right, Ruth.”

  “Like you did?” The words rang through the kitchen like gunshots.

  Amanda had been standing at the sink, holding the rag under the rushing water. Now, suddenly, she bent over, as if tortured by cramp, and slipped down until she was pressing her forehead against the cupboard door beneath the sink. “I can't have her hate me, Ruth,” she gasped through her tears. “I can't.”

  “Shh,” Ruth said, crouching beside her, trying to pull her to her feet. “We'll tell Arthur, then, or Mr. Owens. They can find some other reason for breaking it off.”

  “But she'll find out, Ruth, if they know. She's bound to.” Amanda wiped her face with the dishcloth. Breathing in its sour odors, she prepared to use her last resort. “We all make mistakes, you know,” she said, rising with her back to Ruth. When she turned around, she squared her shoulders but held tight with one hand to the sink behind her. She made her voice sound hard. “Even you, Ruth, made a mistake.”

  “What do you mean?” Ruth remembered his fingers on her forehead, and her face burned.

  “Your mother was going to raise Imogene for me. You would have been sisters then. You would have liked that, wouldn't you? But when I told you to get off the ice, no.” She shook her head. “You wouldn't. You just kept on running. And then …” She cast her eyes down for a moment and then raised them again, staring firmly at Ruth. “Your mother died, and I had to let my baby go.”

  Ruth stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. But Amanda's words bore into her. “No, I …” she began. But her breathing quickened, because she knew she had run. Even now, standing on the soft wood of the kitchen floor, she could feel her feet sliding out from under her, as they scrambled for a purchase on the slick blackness, and remembered that she could not go fast enough, no matter how she tried.

  Amanda reached to touch the back of Ruth's neck with her fingertips. Gently, she drew the girl toward her, until she could tuck Ruth's bowed head under her chin. “It's all right,” she crooned, swaying slightly back and forth. “You were only a baby. You didn't know any better. But you see”—her voice brightened with pride—“I gave up everything for you. Everything. If I hadn't had to take your mother's place, don't you think I could've gone back to work, or had a family of my own? Instead, I took care of you. Now, Ruth,” she sighed, almost happily, “now, don't you think I have the right to ask you to do something for me?”

  Moonlight bullied its way into Ruth's room, and she shifted restlessly in its cool glow. She tried to let the idea that she was to blame sink in or, more accurately, that she had unwittingly tugged the first thread, which made her family unravel. Why had she tried to run across that black space? What had she been running from? The kitchen clock seemed to be ticking mercilessly inches from her head. She sat up in bed and threw her pillow against the wall that separated her room from Amanda's. It whacked loudly against the plaster but summoned no answer.

  She slid out of bed and dressed, making no effort to keep her movements quiet. On her way out of the house she slipped her father's old jacket off its hook near the door.

  The moonshine was nothing like the light of day, and Ruth had trouble keeping her footing as she made her way down the path through the woods. Step after step, she had the sense of the ground falling away, as when she miscounted stairs in the dark and stepped off the last one unexpectedly. She wasn't sure why she was going to the lake; she only felt compelled to be out of the house in the open air, to shake free of the burden of Amanda's secrets.

  Ruth held her face up to meet the night breeze as she worked her way around the rowboat, untying the tarp. Then she slid the boat into the water and began to row.

  She'd gone only ten strokes or so when she noticed that her feet were getting wet. She'd forgotten to put the plug in. She leaned into the stern, plunging her fingers into the inch of water that sloshed around the bottom, and easily found the rubber stopper. But something was blocking the hole.

  It was a silver box, she found when she plucked it up, the cover decorated in a bold, Art Deco style. Balancing the box on one palm, she released the clasp to reveal tiny pills, like coins in a miniature treasure chest. Ruth floated awhile without rowing, polishing the box with her cuff, as she speculated about who might have left it there. Probably some tramp had used the boat as a bed. They did that once in a while, although they usually left the stench of old sweat and tobacco and an empty bottle behind, not silver boxes.

  There was a time, Ruth thought, when she would have half imagined such a charming object to be a gift from her mother, somehow forged at the bottom of the lake and tossed up to land exactly where Ruth would be sure to find it. There was a time when she would have run to present her discovery to Amanda, as she'd given her the arrowheads and the bird's eggs and the fossils she'd come across, and together they'd have built a little cardboard ship for the pirates who'd have st
olen the teeny treasure, and perhaps drawn a map and buried the box under the lilac hedge. There was a time when she'd have squirreled it away in the pocket of her dress to share with Imogene, and they would have told each other about the young man, ill with some romantic disease like tuberculosis, cast out by his wealthy family and condemned to wander the earth alone, because he'd dared to love the wrong girl. They would have studied the faces of the tramps who sometimes sat on the back steps in the evenings, eating their suppers, to find and rescue the boy who had lost his silver box of pills.

  All of those times, Ruth knew, as she sponged the water from the bottom of the boat, were past. She could barely remember her mother, and Amanda had given her own daughter away, and Imo-gene loved a man she couldn't marry. Was it really all her fault? She twisted the sponge hard. She'd been only three, after all. “Why didn't anyone stop me?” she shouted fiercely into the darkness. Somewhere along the shore, a dog began to bark.

  “Shut up!” a man yelled from the dark shore.

  The dog kept barking, but Ruth didn't dare make any more noise. She slipped the box into her pocket and rowed on.

  The key to the island house was hooked on a nail under the low eaves, where she'd left it the last time she added new postcards from her father to her collection. Still, she hesitated at the door, and then quietly walked all the way around the house, peeking between the boards that now only half covered the windows. Only when she'd identified each dark lump as a bed or a dresser or a chair did she unlock the door and go in.

  In the bedroom her mother's smell, which she now recognized as lavender, still clung faithfully to the insides of the dresser drawers. She lay on the floor, on the green braided rug, and looked under the bed. It looked too small to be the place where she'd hidden, listening to the baby being born. Listening to Imogene.