“Easy, Ruby,” Andrew said under his breath, sensing Ruby’s need to escape.
“And this is our showroom,” the three-piece suit said quietly. The moment she closed the door, the birds stopped chirping and the sounds of the waterfall ceased, to be replaced with flute music. Ruby shivered. “Mr. Oliverie will be with you in a moment.”
It was only a moment when Pasquale Oliverie, Sr., turned on the bright fluorescent lights. “Mrs. Blue, you have my deepest sympathy. Such a tragic loss.” He shook his head. “Tragic,” he said in his somber, professional voice. “Walk around, Mrs. Blue, take your time. Ask me any questions and I’ll be glad to answer them. This is our moderate to high, the last row, of course, is quite simple and economically priced.” His voice clearly said no one, but no one, picked from the last row.
Ruby swallowed past the lump in her throat. She looked at Andrew, who half-heartedly pointed to the second casket in the deluxe row.
“May I say you have discriminating taste, Mr. Blue. That’s our most popular choice. Airtight. Double lock. I’m partial to bronze myself. The crepe de chine coverlet is a work of art. The pillow is down-filled. Mrs. Sinclaire will look lovely in it.”
The birds chirped, the waterfall gurgled, and Andrew yanked at Ruby’s arm.
Ruby nodded numbly.
“You won’t be sorry. I always say one’s final journey should be made in style. Now, if you’ll follow me into the office, we can conclude this sorrowful chore.”
When the trio reached Pasquale Oliverie’s office, Ruby noticed a serving cart with an elaborate silver service. A plate of danish on a lace paper doily. Fine china cups with silver rims and sterling silver spoons were passed around. Ruby’s hand trembled when she accepted a cup. It rattled against the saucer. .She tried to balance it on her knee. It still rattled. She handed it to Andrew, who set it on the tray. “I feel as if I’ve been put here by mistake, Andrew,” she whispered. Andrew nodded.
“Now, Mrs. Blue, about the viewing,” Oliverie said briskly. “Tomorrow at two o’clock and again at seven o’clock. Three hours each.”
“Viewing?” Ruby gawked at the funeral director.
“Yes, viewing. Your friends will want to pay their respects. Three days is customary.”
“No,” Ruby said in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own. “No viewing.”
“Very well,” Oliverie said huffily. “Did you bring the clothing?”
“What clothing?” Ruby said blankly.
“The clothing you want your friend laid out in,” Oliverie said patiently.
“It ... it will get here by Federal Express this morning.”
It was eleven o’clock when Ruby and Andrew left Oliverie and Son. “It’s expensive to die,” Ruby muttered.
“Sure seems that way,” Andrew said. “Now what?”
“Now what what?”
“What do we do now? What about flowers? Who calls the minister?”
“Doesn’t Oliverie do that?” Ruby asked harshly. “My mother had everything written down. What kind of flowers she wanted, who were to be the pallbearers, where she wanted to be buried. She even had the plots ahead of time.”
“Some people do that,” Andrew said.
“Yeah. Okay, drive over to the church and then the flower shop.”
The pit loomed in front of her. She closed her eyes behind the oversize black glasses, refusing to look ahead at the opening directly in her line of vision. It was a hole, a very large hole, the biggest damn hole she’d ever seen. A sound bubbled in her throat. A giggle? Relief? The sound threatened to erupt again. Instead, she concentrated on the Astroturf she was standing on, which was greener than any grass, and the thin winter sunshine filtering around the edges of the faded matching awning.
Where were her tears? She should be riddled with grief, not feeling this all-consuming panic. Maybe this numb feeling was grief. Ruby’s gaze moved behind the dark shades, first to the right and then to the left. Who did all these shoes belong to? Her children, a few friends, reporters. The man in the white collar wasn’t saying any of the things she’d written down. Ministers, Unitarian and otherwise, were not supposed to say stupid, meaningless things about dead people who deserved to be honored. The list she’d handed to the reverend had been long, detailed, and so carefully written. Here lies a gentle, caring woman, a woman born to laughter and warmth. A generous woman not only with her life but her time as well. A woman who could laugh at herself, a woman whose eyes filled at the sight of the tin cans the Humane Society placed in stores for contributions. A gourmet cook, a wonderful friend, a forgiving friend. She’d wanted all these things said. This damnable idiot was mumbling about good neighbors and helping hands.
Ruby’s head inched up slightly. She stared at the casket she’d chosen. Top of the line. Fifty big ones. That was okay; it was the least she could do, but where was the lock the mortician promised? It was supposed to have a lock with the combination taped inside the bronze coffin. Never mind that he’d looked at her as though she was crazy, which she was at the time. Vaguely she recalled saying, “It isn’t necessary for you to understand, just do it!” It had been Dixie’s request. “In case my spirit wants to get out,” she’d said. Goddamn it, he’d promised. She wouldn’t pay, that’s all there was to it. She wouldn’t pay the damn penguin, either. Oh, God, oh, God, she was really dead. Gone.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ...” Over. Done. In another few minutes the mourners, complete with long-stemmed roses, the same kind she was holding, would file past the casket to pay their final respects. She dropped her rose and ground it to a watery pulp in the Astroturf. She didn’t have to pay her final respects.
Was the casket really waterproof? Maggots and worms ... what would they attack first? The toes, the ankles ... oh, God, she was really dead. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes ... what about the skeleton? In the movies, bones lasted for hundreds of years. Ashes to ashes. Ashes were thick, dust was dry, almost as thin as air. Oh, God, oh, God ... she was really dead.
Ruby’s eyes snapped open. She thought about moving but didn’t. They were all watching her, all the pairs of shoes, waiting for her to throw herself on the casket.
They were going to be disappointed. Six Valium in as many hours didn’t allow for sudden moves. A hand touched her elbow. “You don’t have to leave, but you must stand over here,” the minister said, motioning to the brick walkway to her left.
“You didn’t say any of the things I wanted. I wrote them down so you would ...”
“My dear, they simply weren’t appropriate,” the minister said quietly.
“Reverend,” Ruby said just as quietly, “I don’t give a good rat’s ass what you think is appropriate. I paid for this funeral and all you ... you made her sound like a stranger, someone I didn’t know ... when someone is dead she has the right ... I have the right ... get away from me ... I’ll say the words myself. You should be ashamed, Reverend.”
“My dear, you’re upset ... it’s only natural for you to feel ...” the minister tried lamely, knowing he’d forfeited her donation.
“Don’t placate me, Reverend, not now,” Ruby said icily.
In the end Ruby found it impossible to summon forth the words she wanted. She looked around for her children, certain they would have disobeyed her instructions to leave her alone at the end. Instead; they were following them to the letter and driving off.
She was alone now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ruby longed for spring, wished for it fervently, but it seemed intent on eluding her, and no amount of wishing was going to make it arrive one day sooner than March 21.
It was raw and cold with patches of snow still on the ground. Ruby found herself ticking off the days on the kitchen calendar. Another week. She wondered if the flowers would magically poke their heads through the hard ground on the morning of the twenty-first. That, she decided, would take a miracle, or at least an immediate warming trend. The calendar said it was 1989, which meant she was still on the sunny sid
e of sixty. Two and a half years to go till she hit the big six-zero. The thought didn’t depress her at all. If she had any regrets these days, it was that she had never had one completely euphorically happy day. Other than that, she was content with her life.
Last year she’d finally allowed the friends she’d made over the years to get a little closer. She now belonged to the Garden Club, was an active member of the library reading group, taught a Sunday School class, and belonged to the little white church in the town square. She was active in environmental issues and constantly wrote her opinions and letters to the local newspapers. She headed a recycling drive and gave a speech at a town meeting about the hazards of plastic containers on the environment. Any extra time she had was devoted to animal rights. It was not unusual at all for her to spend every waking hour of her weekends campaigning with animal rights activists.
Ruby Blue became a “rights and causes” person.
She was disgruntled on the morning of March 24 when she returned to her kitchen from walking the dogs. There hadn’t been one sprout, one green blade poking through the heavy mulch.
She was home today, with a heavy, thick, head cold she couldn’t shake. She felt listless, out of sorts, poor company for anyone who called or stopped by. Better to stay by herself and be miserable alone.
Ruby had her head in a steam tent, trying to unclog her stuffy nose, when a news bulletin blared on the kitchen television. She removed the towel.
Her eyes widened as the commentator gave details of an oil spill in Alaska. Eleven million gallons of oil. A tanker, the Exxon Valdez, had run aground. Prince William Sound. Ruby tried to picture the state of Alaska in her mind. She couldn’t bring it into focus. Eleven million gallons of crude oil was something she couldn’t comprehend. What she did understand was that it was a disaster for the Alaskan environment.
She forgot about her cold as she stayed glued to the television all evening and for the next ten days. Then she made a decision.
After the dogs were fed and walked and she’d cleaned the kitchen, Ruby called Nola.
Nola sounded happy to hear from her. “How are you, Ruby? I’ve been thinking about coming up for the weekend. Can you use some company?”
“Normally I’d jump at a visit from you, but I won’t be here. I’m going away. That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if maybe, if your calendar is clear, you might want to go with me.”
“A vacation! I’d love it. Where are you planning on going?”
“It isn’t exactly a vacation. I’m going to Alaska to help with the oil spill. I’d like it if you could see your way to come along.”
“Are you serious?”
“Never more serious in my life. I’ve been thinking about this for days. I need to give back, Nola, for all the good in my life. It’s that simple. I want to do this. I need to do this. Do you think it’s something you might want to do?” Ruby held her breath, as she waited for her friend’s answer.
“You know what, Ruby? I think this is the best idea you have come up with yet. I’ve been watching the news myself. The only problem is my dog.”
“Hey,” Ruby said, her breath exploding in a long swoosh, “hop in the car and bring him here. Mikey and Biddy are going to take care of my animals. I’m sure they won’t mind one more. I’ll wait up for you. It’s okay to go ahead and make all the arrangements, then?”
“More than all right. I need to give back myself. Thanks, Ruby, for thinking of me.”
“I always think of you, Nola. You’re my friend,” Ruby said happily.
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours. God, Ruby, this is going to be so wonderful. Just me and you, like in the old days. God.”
“Yeah. God,” Ruby whispered as she hung up the phone.
On the eleventh day Ruby and Nola were standing in front of 1436 U Street in Washington, D.C. Ruby pushed through the door marked GREENPEACE.
A tired-looking man raised his eyes from his desk.
Ruby laid the newspaper detailing the Alaskan oil spill on the man’s desk.
“My name is Ruby Blue. This is Nola Quantrell. What can we do?”
EPILOGUE
Ruby smiled when she handed over one of the baby sea otters she’d just cleaned to another volunteer. “We saved another one,” she said tiredly but happily.
God, she was tired. She’d been at it for weeks with the other volunteers, sleeping in snatches, eating bites of food, ashamed to be doing even that. She’d come here to help, and she’d damn well stay at it until she was no longer needed.
She was filthy and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a bath. She didn’t care. No one seemed to care.
“Here you go,” a voice said behind Ruby. “Let’s see if we can save another one.” Ruby turned to reach for the otter. Nola handed it over.
“How’s it going, Ruby?”
“It’s going. I don’t ever remember feeling this good and this tired at the same time. We are making a difference, Nola. That’s the wonderful part. I wish more people were here.”
“I can’t even remember what Seventh Avenue looks like,” Nola said happily. “This is the single, most wonderful thing I’ve ever done in my life. I thank God every day that you asked me to come with you.”
“And I thank God every day that you came,” Ruby said just as happily.
“When this is all over, if it’s ever over, what are you going to do?”
“Work on the Dixie Sinclaire Nature Preserve and bake brownies. Want to help?”
“You bet. Thanks for asking.”
“My pleasure.”
“Ladies, ladies, look up, please. I’d like to take your picture,” a nattily dressed photographer called out.
“They should be helping instead of taking pictures,” Ruby grumbled. “Watch this and follow my cue.” Ruby stepped out of the line she’d been working in and approached a second photographer. “I want you to take a picture when I give you the high sign. Your paper is going to love it.” She was back in line, the baby otter in one hand, a rag thick with oil in the other. “Five bucks says I can wrap this rag around that jerk’s neck. I got a real good arm from throwing sticks for the dogs.”
“You’re on,” Nola laughed.
Two days later, on the island of Maui, Andrew Blue waved a newspaper at his son, who was visiting. He read the caption underneath the picture. “Volunteers Ruby Blue and Nola Quantrell in Prince William Sound, giving this reporter what-for, demanding he help instead of take pictures.”
“Way to go, Ruby,” Andrew chortled proudly. “Way to go.”
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TUESDAY’S CHILD
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PROLOGUE
July 2000
Dunwoody Georgia
MIKALA AULANI, DEFENSE ATTORNEY, SITTING FIRST CHAIR IN the case of State of Georgia vs. Sophie Lee, couldn’t believe what she had just heard. She felt like she was carved in stone and in a time warp all rolled into one. She wanted to say something, but her tongue wouldn’t work. She saw the foreman of the jury holding the paper he had just read from. She had seen the tremor in his hand and known immediately what he was going to say. And that it was not going to be good for her client. She had seen his blank expression. Now she heard the words ricocheting around inside her head, over and over and over.
Her legs were wobbly, and she was soaked with perspiration because the air-conditioning in the courthouse was broken. Overhead, a paddle fan moved sluggishly, barely stirring the stale air. A fly buzzed dangerously near her nose. She wanted to swat at it.
She risked a glance at Ryan Spenser, the prosecutor, bastard that he was, and saw the smug exp
ression that he tried unsuccessfully to hide. Why was she even looking at the son of a bitch? She should be looking at her client, the client who had just been convicted of a heinous crime. A conviction of first-degree murder that would get her a sentence of life in prison without the possibility of parole—for a crime she didn’t commit. Twenty-four-year-old dedicated nurses simply did not kill their patients, and yet that bastard Ryan had convinced a jury of seven men and five women that she had done just that. Bastard.
Mikala felt a hand on her arm and looked down, then up. Again, she heard the words but didn’t comprehend them. “Is today Tuesday, Kala?” Mikala nodded. “Every single thing, bad or good, has always happened to me on a Tuesday. I guess that makes me Tuesday’s Child. Thank you, Kala, for everything,” Sophie Lee said quietly.
Mikala Aulani wanted to cry. She wanted to hug her client, but she was being led away. The judge was thanking the jurors for their service and discharging them. The courtroom was emptying at the speed of light. The trial of the decade had finally ended, and the reporters wanted out to report on the verdict.
Mikala—Kala to friends and peers—sat down and stared at nothing. Jay Brighton, her second chair, started to pack up their briefcases. Across the aisle, Ryan Spenser’s staff was doing the same thing.
“Tough break, counselor,” Spenser said. “Guess this breaks that winning streak you’ve been on, huh? You know what they say—the best man wins. You put on a hell of a defense, Kala, I’ll give you that. I’ll give you something else, too. Your client handled the verdict well. Guess you coached her for that. Just out of curiosity, what did she whisper to you before they took her away?”
Kala finally turned sideways and looked up at the spit-and-polish prosecutor, with his designer suit, power tie, pristine white shirt, and gleaming porcelain-capped teeth. He looked like an Adonis, and the media loved him. It didn’t hurt that his father was the Speaker of the House in Washington, something Ryan Junior traded in on every day of his life.
Seasons of Her Life Page 68
