She says no more. She trails off and closes her mouth.
Ruby nods. There’s not much more to say about that. Ruby is sorry Uncle Paul feels about Miss Wells as he does. She’s sorry he doesn’t like black people.
Ruby’s father didn’t like them, either.
“Your aunt is a nice lady,” Miss Wells says, brightening.
Ruby nods again. Aunt Angie is more than nice. Ruby thinks she might be more clever than she lets on. Aunt Angie is like a cute little mouse that scampers around the baseboards. Nobody notices the mouse has been stealing earrings, loose change, bits of tinfoil—anything bright and shiny—and hiding them away in her mouse hole in some far corner of the house.
Ruby knows Aunt Angie was snooping in her mother’s room yesterday. But if her aunt found anything worth finding, she would have been more inquisitive when she peeked into Ruby’s room to check on her. Instead, she’d barely said anything, just talked about washing floors.
It was a misstep on Ruby’s part, not taking care of things sooner. But it’s all right now. Aunt Angie won’t learn any more than Ruby wants her to.
Miss Wells says, “It wouldn’t hurt you to trust your aunt, Ruby. I think she means well. I think she only wants to help.”
Ruby considers this. Then she says, “I think so, too.”
• • •
After Miss Wells leaves, Ruby sneaks out of the birdcage and heads toward the Shelter.
When she gets there, she sits on the rock. It’s just Ruby—no Shepherd and no snake tonight. She lights a Camel and looks out toward the cemetery. There’s a waxing gibbous moon shining onto the tops of the old, sinking gravestones.
Everything is small in this cemetery. Everything is old and simple, like Shaker furniture or those samplers you see in museums, the stitching done by little girls a hundred years ago. There are no statues or mausoleums in this place; it’s nothing like the big Catholic cemetery on a busy road where Ruby’s father now lies.
She pulls her knees up to her chest and hugs them close, thinking about the different ways people house their dead. Personally, she likes the idea of a mausoleum or a tomb. A little bit of space, a little air. Even if you’re dead, wouldn’t it be more pleasant if you had some air around you?
She smokes slowly and contemplatively, resting her chin on her knees. She doesn’t attempt to move the rock. She does not consider going down into the Shelter. But she imagines what it would look like if she did.
If she were down there, she would click on the flashlight that sits on the bookshelf. She’d shiver; the concrete walls always give the place a chill, like being inside a walk-in refrigerator. There would be a musty smell, as if something might be decaying. Her father was always laying traps down there for rats and mice.
The Shelter is about twelve feet by ten. Along the far wall are two sets of bunks, made up with plaid blankets and starched white pillowcases. Below the lower bunks are long pine storage containers, designed to hold clothes and bedding. Close to the entrance, the wall is outfitted with deep shelves upon which canned food items are arranged: soup, vegetables, Spam, beans. Large tins are labeled CEREAL FLAKES and CRACKERS in her father’s blocky, chunky handwriting. Tall glass bottles of water are on the lowest shelf. The top shelf holds a tidy set of white ceramic dishes, paper napkins, and a wooden box filled with silverware.
In the far corner is a small area blocked off with a plywood door, where the toilet is. It’s a big metal canister with a toilet seat on the top. There are dozens of rolls of toilet paper stacked on a shelf in there, as well as a supply of heavy-duty plastic bags for lining the canister. If they were forced to spend time in the Shelter, Ruby’s father would remove the sewage bags and other debris after the transistor radio gave a CONELRAD signal—the radio’s antennae rose through the roof and the ground above it, a slim spike sticking out near the boulder, one that nobody would notice without looking for it—that it was safe to be above ground again.
Her father was fastidious. He thought of everything. No one can argue that.
Between the toilet area and the table is a bookshelf. Ruby has read all the books on the shelf. There are novels by Ayn Rand—The Fountainhead; Atlas Shrugged. George Orwell’s 1984 My Life and Work by Henry Ford. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley; We by Yevgeny Zamyatin. The shelf also has games: a board for checkers and chess, Scrabble, a deck of cards, and a cribbage board.
That’s nearly all that’s in the Shelter. Nothing else down there to speak about.
Sitting on the rock, the Shelter deep below her, the gravestones to the east silent and knowing, Ruby pulls her mother’s necklace from inside her blouse. She rubs her fingers on the sapphire. She does it over and over, the way a person might rub an oil lamp to bring out the genie.
One who could grant Ruby a wish. One who could help her fly far, far away.
Not just to another small town, like the one where Uncle Paul and Aunt Angie live. Tonight at dinner, hearing Aunt Angie talk about her home, Ruby realized there’s little distinction. In the long run, another town anywhere in the country is going to be more similar to Stonekill than different.
Ruby’s wish is to be truly and completely away. To be someplace where she can live a life as unlike this one as a bendy, twisted olive tree differs from the oaks and pines towering above her.
31
* * *
Silja
1949
The last week in August, Silja saw a sign posted near the train station for a folk concert to be held at a picnic grounds on the outskirts of Peekskill. The concert was sponsored by some group called People’s Artists; Paul Robeson would be performing, and Pete Seeger and others. Silja knew that many considered Robeson a Communist—and perhaps he was, but playing music and gathering on a summer evening in support of the working man didn’t seem like a bad proposition.
In fact, it sounded like the sort of thing her mother would have enjoyed. With the fourth anniversary of Mikaela’s death approaching, Silja had been thinking a lot about her mother—and her past. Silja hadn’t been back to Brooklyn, back to the Alku, in over a year. Sometimes it was hard to remember who she’d even been before they moved to Stonekill. Her links to her youth were dissolving; Dr. Franck had died a year ago, and Silja had lost touch with Johanna and most others from her school days.
When they’d first moved to Stonekill, she assumed she’d go back often, stay connected with her roots. She and Ruby went several times—paying respects at Mikaela’s grave, visiting old neighbors at the Alku. But after those few visits, Silja didn’t want to go again. Brooklyn wasn’t the same without her mother. The last time she went, she left in tears and vowed never to return.
The concert, however, sounded fun—a welcome diversion and a fitting way to remember her mother. She mentioned it to Henry, who scoffed at the idea. “No, thanks,” he said. “They say Robeson’s a Communist; did you know that?”
“Of course I know that,” she replied. “But it’s just music, Henry. It’s just a nice time.”
“Well, I don’t listen to Negro music,” he replied. “Or any of that folksy stuff.”
He lifted his shoulders, which were brown and bare, burnished and smooth as polished wood. He’d been mowing the lawn and had come in for a break. He poured himself a glass of water and, despite the heat, put on the kettle for yet another of his ceaseless cups of black tea.
Silja watched his Adam’s apple as he drank. She wanted to touch it—touch any part of him, really. But she knew better.
“But you don’t mind if I take the truck and go to the concert?” she asked. “And bring Ruby with me? I think she’d enjoy it.”
Henry shrugged. “Do as you wish.”
• • •
The early evening was clear, though humid. Silja drove Henry’s pickup truck to the picnic grounds just east of Peekskill, arriving before dusk. The road was jammed with parked cars. Silja presumed it was because of the popularity of the concert, but she soon realized the cars belonged to protesters, not concertgoers
. A crowd, mostly men and older boys, lined the roadway. They waved signs and shouted at those trying to make their way into the grounds.
“What foolishness,” Silja muttered to Ruby, who sat small and upright beside her in the truck’s cab.
Inside the picnic grounds, rows of wooden seats were set up facing the stage. A few dozen seats were occupied. Other small groups—some men but mostly women and children—picnicked on blankets spread beside the chairs. Silja was surprised at the low turnout, but she later learned that the entrance to the grounds had been blocked off shortly after she arrived.
She and Ruby found seats near the stage. Silja pulled fried chicken, deviled eggs, and apple pie from a basket—all made by Henry, and all delectable. He’d become quite the cook since they moved to Stonekill; often Silja came home from work to find him slaving in the kitchen, concocting something elaborate for supper. She was impressed by the variety of dishes he’d learned to make—fare as simply delicious as the picnic he’d packed for them tonight, up to and including extravagant dinners like braised short ribs with garlic potatoes au gratin.
As she and Ruby ate their picnic, she smiled apprehensively at those nearby. There was a low murmur as they waited for someone in authority to emerge, musicians to set up, something to happen. A cluster of teenagers, black and white, sat on the stage—legs dangling off the front of the stage as they chatted and flirted with one another. Silja was pleased at how the young people got along. No racial prejudices in this environment; it set a good example for Ruby.
Still, no one shooed the kids off the stage so the concert could begin. Silja saw no sign of Paul Robeson, nor anyone in charge.
A boy came running up the road from the entrance; Silja heard him shouting but couldn’t catch what he said. Most of the men, and numerous teens—both boys and girls—followed the messenger up the road.
Silja and the other women stood around, staring toward the entrance, unsure what to do. Coming here was a mistake, Silja thought. Henry was right; I have no place here, and neither does Ruby.
But it would be impossible to leave now. Henry’s truck was parked by the entrance, her access to it blocked by the protesters.
The teenage girls came running back down the road. “Listen, everyone!” a tall black girl shouted, her hands cupped around her mouth. “There could be trouble. Our men and boys are organizing to fight, but in order to stay safe down here, we need everyone on the stage. Come on, now.”
Silja and Ruby were herded onstage with the other women and children. Silja clutched her purse and her picnic basket, and held Ruby’s hand in hers.
It felt like they were there for hours—sitting ducks—but later Silja realized it was probably no more than thirty minutes. Darkness began to descend, and from the entrance there was yelling—it was impossible to tell what was said, or by whom. Silja gathered her daughter close to her body, cradling the child’s head against her waist.
Shouts came from the hills to the sides of the concert grounds, and bobbling lights appeared through the trees. Someone on the stage said the mob was coming in from the sides; a few teenage girls took off up the road to alert the men. Soon several men appeared to defend the gathering of women and children on the stage. They locked arms and stood at the front of the stage. The immediate threat dissipated; no one came down from the hills once they saw the men.
“We’ll stay here, in case they come back,” said a man in front of Silja.
“Do you think they will?” She felt her body shake with fear.
He turned to look her in the eye. He wasn’t tall, but he was sturdily built. He wore a plain button-down shirt and dark gray slacks. His hair was salt-and-pepper. “It will be all right,” he said quietly, leaning toward her. “I don’t want to alarm the group here, but I’ll be honest, ma’am: there are a lot of hotheaded fellows up there. I still think our boys and men have the upper hand.” His look was resolute. “We have composure on our side, something an angry mob never has. It’s an advantage not to be overlooked.”
They waited, listening. The floodlights were on the empty seats in front of them. Then the mob was upon them, descending from the entrance, along with the several dozen men trying to defend their space. The men on the stage sprang into action, swinging down and into the mob. Silja screamed and turned her back, with Ruby pressed against her stomach. The floodlights went out—someone must have cut the generator—and in the panicky darkness, everyone pushed against everyone else. Silja’s eyeglasses went flying.
It was over within minutes. Somehow, the mob was pushed back, or lost its drive, or decided it wasn’t worth it. Silja turned her head and with her fuzzy eyesight, saw the mob moving back over the hill.
“It’s over now,” someone next to her said. “They’ve gone.”
They were told to wait in darkness—for how long and for what, Silja wasn’t sure—but she stood patiently on the stage, Ruby beside her, until police cars arrived. “Everyone just clear out,” a policeman called. “It’s safe now. Go home.” People started moving away from the stage, organizing into groups to go home together.
Searching the stage for her glasses, Silja felt a tap on her shoulder. “Are these yours?”
Gratefully, she took the glasses and placed them on her nose. She saw it was the same fellow who’d been defending the stage earlier.
“You should take your little girl and go home now, ma’am,” he said softly. “Do you have a car?”
She nodded. “I drove here in my husband’s truck.”
“I’ll walk you to it.” The man lifted Ruby and began walking silently up the hill, Silja beside him. Ruby, wrapped around the man’s torso, watched Silja. The girl’s eyes were large, staring at her mother over the man’s shoulder.
When they got to the truck, they found its tires slashed and windshield shattered. Silja winced at the sight. Henry was going to be furious.
“My car is here,” the man said gruffly. He set Ruby on the ground beside a late-model black Plymouth coupe. “Where do you live? Can I take you home?”
“That’s kind of you. We’re in downtown Stonekill.” She slid into the seat as he held the car door open for her. He handed Ruby onto her lap.
“Did you come by yourself?” Silja asked as he swung the car around and headed down the dirt road out of the picnic grounds. The mob had disappeared. Silja marveled that so much anger could simply dissolve, like bubbles in a pot after the stove is turned off.
“I did come alone,” he said. “I just wanted to hear some good music and speeches.”
Silja smiled. “Me, too.”
“Me, too,” Ruby echoed. “Why weren’t there any musicians?”
The man tilted his head thoughtfully. “Because sometimes,” he told Ruby, “it’s not easy for people to see eye to eye.”
Silja thought it generous of him to speak to the child so candidly, as if Ruby had the wisdom of one much older than her six years. Could he tell that just by looking into Ruby’s solemn eyes?
He changed the subject, asking Ruby what grade she would be starting in the fall, if she knew her teacher’s name yet, the title and storyline of her favorite book. In the darkened, cozy car, Ruby readily answered all his questions, and even offered up information he hadn’t asked for. “I know how to write in cursive already,” Ruby told their driver. “My mother taught me.”
Silja smiled. It was true; over the summer—noticing how neat and pretty the child’s printing had become—Silja began giving her lessons in cursive. It was just in fun—another enjoyable pastime for their evenings together.
“Well, that’s impressive,” the man said. “Your teacher will be surprised.”
“She sure will,” Ruby agreed. “They don’t teach cursive at school until third grade, so I bet nobody else in the first grade can do it besides me.”
Silja wasn’t accustomed to her daughter speaking so freely, especially to a stranger. She held Ruby close and gently rubbed the child’s back through her cotton blouse. Ruby snuggled against Silja’s shoulde
r, her arm draped around Silja’s neck.
In the end, Silja let him drive to town but not to her house. She asked him to let them out near the station. “We live just a few blocks away. We can walk from here.”
He nodded. “I understand, ma’am.”
She took a long look at him. His down-turned eyes were brown; they had the devoted, amiable expression of a dog’s eyes. In recent weeks, Silja and Ruby had been learning about dogs. Ruby was begging for a puppy, and they’d checked out a library book about different dog breeds. Paging through it, they discussed the pros and cons of each breed as seriously as one of Silja’s negotiations at the office.
The man seated next to her in the Plymouth had the look of a Norwegian Elkhound, or perhaps a Newfoundland. Some loyal, brave companion who would never betray its loved ones.
“You’re a knight in shining armor.” Silja opened the car door and set Ruby on the sidewalk, then stepped out herself. “What’s your name?”
He smiled at her—a kind and grateful smile, as if she’d been the one who delivered him from danger, instead of the other way around. “It’s David, ma’am.”
“David.” She reached across the car seat and shook his hand. “I’m Silja, and this is Ruby.”
He grasped her hand and shook it firmly, then let go. “I hope to see you again sometime, Silja.” He nodded at the child. “And you, too, Ruby.”
The girl leaned past Silja into the car, placing both hands on the passenger seat. “You’re a good man,” she said to David, her voice earnest, as only the very young can authentically be. “Thank you.”
32
* * *
Angie
On Saturday morning after breakfast, Paul got on the phone, attempting to book an airline flight for all of us back to Wisconsin. When he’d reserved our flight to New York, he bought round-trip tickets but left the return date open-ended. But now he seemed determined that we all go back to Wisconsin as soon as possible. “There’s stability there,” he said to me. “Your parents can help out. And I want to get back to my painting.”
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