“It sounds lovely, but it must be a lot of work.”
Ruth shrugged. “It is, but it’s become a tradition. I want to keep my kids close to each other, you know?”
No, Lucy wanted to say, that’s something I’ll never know.
As Ruth headed into the kitchen Lucy stood there, imagining the huge family crowded around the big oval table eating and talking, Ruth at the head, flushed with the warmth of what surrounded her. Then she walked into the kitchen. It, too, had a dated but comfortable feel—old pine cabinets, white Formica counters, an oak trestle table with four ladder back chairs with red checked cushions tied to the seats. Canisters with painted roosters on the front were lined up next to the toaster and coffee maker. This was a used kitchen. A loved kitchen.
Under the kitchen table, Sam lay with her head on crossed paws, eyes half closed, watching her.
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing, it’ll just take a few minutes. Why don’t you go put your things upstairs? It’s the first room on the right. Nothing fancy, but the bed’s good.”
Ruth turned from the stove. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or how about a glass of wine?”
Her hair had dried and she’d pulled it back at some point with a rubber band, but curling wisps of gray framed her face. Lucy imagined what her mother might say. After her father left, her mother had gone to beauty school and supported them working long hours in a beauty parlor. She’d no doubt cluck her tongue and say that Ruth was in desperate need of a makeover. But as Lucy looked at her, Ruth looked more like a Madonna—the luminous face, the kind brown eyes that curved down slightly. Her hair like a halo. Lucy wouldn’t have changed a thing.
“Actually, I’d love a glass of wine. I’ll just put my things upstairs and be back in a moment.”
Lucy had never seen so many books in a house. They were everywhere, and when she went upstairs to the spare room, Ruth’s door was ajar and she saw stacks of books on both nightstands, the dresser, and piles on the floor, as well.
She took a cigarette from her purse, then sat on the edge of the bed in the blue bedroom and looked around, putting it to her lips unlit, taking a drag, then letting it out as slowly as she could. The plaster ceiling was littered with cracks. The walls were navy, a dreary color, and the furniture was old and sparse. And then she realized it was the color of a teenage boy’s room, remembering Jake’s red, white and blue phase so long ago. On top of the dresser sat another assortment of framed photos, a blond boy with a fishing pole, and then older, in a high school football uniform; and there he was in yet another, on the porch steps of this house with an ice cream cone, sitting between a darker-haired boy, no doubt his older brother, who looked like Ruth, and then the blonde sister. She tried to imagine a younger Ruth here in this house with three children. She’d never mentioned a husband.
It was dark out now, and as she sat on the edge of the bed in a stranger’s house far from home, a slippery feeling rose in Lucy’s chest. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, imagining that she wasn’t here in Warwick, New York. She was sitting on the beach on Anastasia Island. It was early morning, just before dawn, and she was waiting for the sun to break on the horizon. This was the game she’d begun playing since these bouts of anxiety started hitting her.
She could almost hear the calming lap of the ocean, the haunting cry of gulls. The waves, as you stared at them for long stretches while searching for dolphins, could be hypnotic, and she let herself fall into the rhythm of those phantom waves, willing her heart to slow down. She felt the grip of sleep pulling her again, as it had earlier, but this time she stood up quickly and slipped the unlit cigarette back in her purse.
She’d have a glass of wine, maybe two, then plead exhaustion—which was true—and go right to bed. She’d get up early and slip out before Ruth was up. An early departure would be excused, especially if she left a nice note.
After today’s debacle, how could she possibly come back for the signing?
7
WHEN SHE’D NEARLY CRASHED INTO LUCY coming out of the bathroom at the store, Ruth knew immediately that Megan had misread her. Hadn’t she seen that dazed expression often enough on her own face just after Bill’s death? When the world as she knew it had been pulled out from beneath her? Worried about everything, from how she’d pay the bills to her children’s emotional health. And worst of all, wondering if it had been her fault.
Now she sat across from Lucy, who was making polite conversation as she nibbled around the crust of her sandwich like a child with an old-fashioned pixie cut.
“Have you always lived here in Warwick?” Lucy asked.
“Yes, just a few miles out of town. My father was a dairy farmer, as was his father and grandfather. Our family was on that farm for generations. But although I used to fantasize about living in all the beautiful settings I read about, when I got married, well, this seemed like a great place to raise my own children. As you saw, we rarely lock our doors, plus my husband was from Warwick. After he died, I …couldn’t imagine moving away with the kids. It would have devastated his parents.”
“Did you want to?”
Of course there were moments she wanted to just run away from everything here, every memory, and start over somewhere else. “No, I knew this was the best place for the kids. They’d lost their father and I didn’t want to take them away from everything familiar.”
“Did you own the bookstore then?” Lucy asked, pouring herself a little more wine.
“No, I was what they now call a ‘stay at home mom.’ I had three children pretty close together and my husband worked long hours on the railroad, sometimes gone for a few days at a time. Back then, women were really just starting to get out in the working world. It’s so very different now. After he died, there was some insurance money so I didn’t have to get a job right away. But during those long hours when the kids were in school I started to go stir crazy.”
Actually, she found herself admitting to Lucy, she had thought she was losing her mind. Alex and Jenny were coping, but Colin had worried her, barely talking, withdrawing from everything, even sports, which he loved. Despite longing to do something, she knew she needed to be there when they got home. So her days became lost hours at the local library. Like an alcoholic in search of a fix, she wandered the stacks and shelves looking for something, anything, to help her escape what wasn’t supposed to be her life. And then, walking down Main Street one day, she saw a help wanted sign in the bookstore. Although it was just a few days a week while the kids were in school, it brought back a sense of order, something that had been part of her life since she was old enough to get up at dawn and help with the farm chores.
It wasn’t just the reading, she went on. Being around others began to calm the tremors that had pulsed through her body from the moment she heard the loud knocking on her front door in the middle of that awful night.
“To be honest, I wasn’t always this outgoing. Books were the only thing I ever really felt I was good at. And working in the store, discussing a novel, or recommending a biography or self-help book, well I finally felt myself getting over my shyness. People appreciated my opinion. And it was fun. I knew one day Betsy, who owned The Book Lover then, would retire, so I saved every dime and began compiling a list of books I’d want to carry. That was more than thirty years ago.”
“What happened to your husband?”
“It was…a car accident.” How simple that sounded. Accidents happened every day, didn’t they? But nothing about it had been simple.
“I’m sorry, that was a rude question.”
“No, don’t be silly. It was a long time ago.”
“Well, you must be very proud of your store. It’s lovely, and believe me, I stopped at tons in the past five days on my way here.”
“You drove here from Florida?”
Lucy nodded and then her face flushed. “I don’t really have much going on in my life right now and I need to promote my book, so I figured this would be a good
time.”
“How many did you stop at?”
Lucy shrugged. “Maybe thirty or so?”
Ruth felt her mouth fall open. “You drove a thousand miles over five days and stopped at all those bookstores?”
“I just need something to focus on. I know, it’s crazy, my life is just…in the crapper,” she said with a little laugh, but Ruth could see from her face that there was nothing funny there.
Whatever precipitated this trip must have been pretty devastating. The way Lucy clammed right back up, it was obvious she wasn’t ready to talk about it.
“Well, your book is wonderful,” Ruth said, trying to bring the conversation back to something Lucy was comfortable with.
Lucy stared at her a moment, then blushed. “You realize my book is self-published, right?”
Ruth blinked. “I…I actually had no idea. I thought you were just with a tiny press that didn’t really…” she shrugged.
“No, that’s what I want people to think, so they won’t assume it’s awful because I couldn’t get it taken. And that’s why I’ve been going to so many bookstores, hoping they’ll take a chance and read it.”
“That’s incredibly gutsy.”
“Well, it started out pretty rough. I’d sit in my car all nervous and dread walking into these little stores, asking if they’d like to read my self-published book, sometimes catching the eye rolls. But I kept reminding myself I’ve been through a lot worse than that. Anyway, I have to say by the time I reached Virginia, I had a pretty good spiel down,” she said and then laughed. “I worked in a store, you know, so I can sell, and I figured, why wasn’t I selling the hell out of this book, right? So I mentioned you and our signing and that you’re suggesting my novel to a few book clubs, that got them listening. Oh, and some reader quotes. So now I’ve got about ten stores that took review copies and I’m hoping to hear something soon,” she finished with a smile that seemed almost too bright.
Ruth thought about the character in the book, the lonely little girl who grows up to be a lonely woman, struggling to hang onto a marriage that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. “Lucy, it’s a powerful book. I think anyone who picks it up can’t help but be moved.”
“You have no idea what that means to me, Ruth. I mean, you’re in the business, you read tons of books and…well, it’s kind of validation, you know what I mean?”
“I do, yes. So tell me what inspired you to write A Quiet Wanting?”
Lucy said nothing for a long moment. “I’d actually given up on writing. It just seemed pointless, as my husband started telling me after I gave up on a different novel, getting rejected over and over. And we were trying to have a baby, which was stressful enough, because we had to go through all that fertility stuff.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I got pregnant but I started having contractions way too early. The doctor told me if I wanted to bring this baby to term I had to get in bed and not get up until I delivered.”
Lucy traced the pattern of the lace tablecloth as she continued. “Can you imagine? Being told you had to basically sit in a room for months? Up until then I thought I’d do anything to have a baby, and I did, having one miscarriage after another. This was the first time I’d gotten to five months. But I began to get a dose of cabin fever after a week or so, kind of like you were saying before. One day I picked up a pen and one of David’s legal pads and I started writing again. It was like I rediscovered a part of myself I’d simply forgotten about. The story just took off, and it hit me how lucky I was. I’d probably never have another chance like that, all that free time to devote to writing. Whoever has that? Especially with a baby.”
“As the weeks went on and the novel grew, I was so excited. I was going to have a baby, and a book; I had a wonderful husband, a beautiful home. I was going to have everything I ever wanted. And then…just after my seventh month, I went into labor anyway. He was so beautiful, and so tiny. They told me lots of babies are born way earlier and survive. He struggled for three days, but there was something wrong with his heart and…we lost him.”
“Oh, Lucy. I’m so sorry,” Ruth said, reaching across the table and squeezing Lucy’s hand.
“It’s all right, it’s been five years.” She gave Ruth a little shrug.
Ruth knew it didn’t matter how many years ago it was. Something like that never left you.
“Anyway, it took me another two years to finish writing the book.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and Ruth poured a little more wine in her glass. Lucy held hers up, too.
“I nearly lost my son, Colin. He was serving in Iraq and got hit with one of those horrible roadside bombs a few years ago. He’ll never be the same.”
She wasn’t sure Lucy heard her; she was staring at the lace tablecloth, seeming lost in thought. She reminded Ruth of a blonde version of Audrey Hepburn, with the chopped hair, the long, graceful neck, and the big green eyes.
“Do you think that’s true?” Lucy asked her, suddenly looking up. “Do you think that nobody ever really gets everything?”
“Oh…I don’t know, Lucy.”
“My mother used to say that all the time.”
Lucy went upstairs then. A short while later Ruth went up, too. She didn’t think she’d sleep. It would be hard not to keep replaying the conversation with Lucy, who was nothing like what she’d been expecting. But then she remembered her visit to Thomas and her stomach gave a little squeeze. It was less than forty-eight hours away. But despite Lucy, and Thomas, the moment Ruth’s head hit the pillow she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * *
BY FIVE IN THE MORNING RUTH WAS WIDE AWAKE and refreshed. She wondered if it was the wine. Maybe Jenny was right, she thought with a laugh, maybe she needed to drink a little more. She tiptoed down to the kitchen, let Sam out, and put up two big pots of water to boil for the seven pounds of potato salad she was making for brunch. She let Sam back in and poured food into her bowl, then filled the other with fresh water and a few cubes. Sam liked her water cold.
By then the coffee was ready and she poured herself a big mug. Slipping on her reading glasses, she stared at herself in the mirror over the sink. Years ago she had dreamed about one day having the money to put a window there. Now she looked at her hair, which was starting to look like Brillo. Maybe she could just trim the shredded ends herself. She opened the junk drawer, fished out the sharp scissor, and took a long lock, stretching it to snip a bit off when she heard a noise.
She turned and saw Lucy in the doorway, her suitcase at her feet, a piece of paper in her hand.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were up,” Lucy said, her face turning red. “I was just going to leave this note for you on the table.”
Clearly Lucy was hoping to slip out without notice.
“No, no. I’ve been up a little while.”
“Are you cutting your hair?”
“Thinking about it.”
“Oh, your wet hair yesterday. That’s where you were when I showed up. I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m actually glad. I think Dee was going to do something drastic, and truthfully, I don’t want drastic.”
Lucy put the note in the pocket of her jeans. “I could trim it for you. It’s the least I could do. I feel awful, Ruth, about everything.”
She hesitated. Obviously Lucy wanted to do something for her. Ruth handed the scissors over. “Trim away,” she said, sitting in one of the ladder back chairs.
Lucy picked up the brush off the washer and began to pull it through her thick, wiry hair, no easy feat. “Your hair is beautiful. My mother was a beautician, so I know a little about this. She taught me how to cut her hair, too, so we could save money. I’m only going to trim the ends.”
“I trust you,” Ruth said, and she did. “I can’t tell you the last time I had my hair cut.”
She heard the first snip of the scissor and from the corner of her eye saw a tiny curl flutter to the linoleum.
“What’s the occasion?” L
ucy asked. Another snip.
“I’m…going to see someone tomorrow.”
“A man?”
She nodded, and Lucy stopped abruptly. “Sorry,” Ruth said. She held her head erect again. “Yes, a man. Actually…” she hesitated, and then, as Lucy continued cutting, Ruth began to tell her everything. That she sold books at the prison. That Thomas was the first man in more than three decades who sparked something inside of her. And she was afraid that after tomorrow, she’d never see him again.
Talking about it was a revelation, like the old cliché of a weight being lifted from your shoulders. But it was true. Hearing herself say Thomas’s name out loud, and how over the long lonely years, there’d never been another man, sounded like something from a novel. The aged spinster throwing away her last years on a fantasy. The sorry satisfaction of having but a dozen hours a year to play it out at their meetings. Of course there were the letters. And maybe that was the problem, she confessed. At times his letters seemed so intimate there was a danger of reading between the lines, of concocting a person who perhaps existed only in her mind.
“But why do you think you won’t see him again?”
“The last time I saw him he had a bandaged hand. And then he wasn’t at our book meeting. He’s never missed one in five years. And now…now he wants to see me, during visiting hours. I think maybe he’s gotten into some trouble, maybe there was a fight, and he won’t be doing the book orders anymore.” She sighed. “No one knows about him. My kids would think this was all insane. And when I say it out loud, well, it does sound insane. But it’s such a relief to talk about it.”
“What did he do?”
“Actually, I don’t know. It’s ridiculous, I know, but back in the beginning, when I first began going, I knew the only way I’d be able to deal with them as real people was not to know what any of them did to get themselves in there.”
“You don’t strike me as the impetuous type, Ruth. There must be something about him.”
Book Lover, The Page 8
