Ruby breathed in the man, his salty scent, the faint odor of his aftershave. She took his air into her lungs and held it as he began kissing her, his hands firm now, in her hair, on her back, fingers tight against her ribs. Some powdery feeling collected at the back of her throat and her chest rose too quickly and released with a moan. When she pulled away her eyes were wet.
She looked down at the earth because she couldn’t look directly at the man. She could not give her heart to him. She could never hand over what had been ripped away so long ago. Still, she could stand shoulder to chest beside him. She looked up at the sky. It had made a decision and suddenly poured full and free about them. They did not move.
Ephram almost reached out to touch her cheek but a flash of lightning stopped him. He counted silently and the thunder rolled when he reached nine.
Together like children they waited and counted the next flash. They stopped at seven. The storm was coming closer. Ruby felt the urge to leap against Ephram and hold him too tight, to weep into his collar and thank him for her salvation, but instead she punched his right arm and said, “Nice suit.”
“You like it?”
“Sure do.” Ruby stepped towards the house then turned around. “If you’ve got any others like him at home tell them they’re welcome to come over and stay awhile.”
Ephram smiled. “Six at least. But they don’t go nowhere without their shoes.”
“I suppose the shoes don’t go nowhere without them socks.”
“They’re pushy that way. Matter of fact, they so presumptuous, they jumped in that there bag and dragged me all the way here.”
“Did they?”
“They sho did.”
“Well, if they went to all that trouble, no telling what else they likely to do. I ’spose we best let them on in.”
Ephram went to get the bag. The ice cream was a bit mashed, but still cold in the sack.
They were both grinning when they reached the porch.
The rain fell so hard it started singing. They were almost at the door when they both saw the last traces of the red powder streaking in front of the door. Ruby took a step back. The sight of it sent a spark of anger across Ephram’s chest; he bent down and sniffed. He thought of the stories he’d heard since childhood, of hexes and spells and curses under the blood moon.
“Foolishness.” Then to Ruby he said, “Wait here.”
She leaned against the porch and watched the dark woods as Ephram ducked inside. A quiet terror washed over her. The scent of Aqua Velva lifted with the wind tinged with tobacco. It lasted for only a second. Ephram came out with a scrub brush. He made quick work of finishing what the rain had started; when he was done he rinsed his hands at the pump and put the bags in the house. He lifted Ruby by the waist and easily carried her to the door’s threshold, then paused as the crow started fussing again in the trees, soaked and angry. It cawed, Child, I’d watch myself if I was you.
Over Ephram’s shoulder, a soft outline formed in the dark, and for a moment Ruby saw the Reverend Jennings like a puff of smoke. In the warmth of Ephram’s arms, Ruby tucked it away as a trick of shadow.
“Shut up Maggie,” she whispered, as Ephram carried her into the house.
Chapter 19
Celia walked into her silent home after the Rankins’ reception. The fact that Ephram had left during the burial was embarrassment enough, but when he failed to make Junie’s reception, Celia had felt a shame she hadn’t known since her mama rubbed her nakedness in God’s face. She had kept peeking towards the door when it opened, certain that the men and women of Liberty, that threats and plain decency, would have waved Ephram’s little boat home. When it became clear that it had not, she had burned inside of her skin. Supra’s smirk when she handed Celia a piece of Verde’s lopsided coconut cake crushed Celia’s chest in on itself. She stooped just a bit from the effort to accept it.
Now, alone in her home, the empty pans in the shelves and unused plates in the cupboards, brought their daddy, the Reverend, to mind. The slice of loneliness heaped upon her plate when he was killed by those White men from Neches came back to her. The food she’d kept on hand for him, the smoked ham and salt pork, the pickled trotters and the hot peppers in vinegar for his greens, all waited for years until the twisted lids grew mold. Neither she nor Ephram had found the gumption to go near it.
Thirty-three years later, Celia knew that the food waiting in the refrigerator for Ephram would soon start to curl and lose its crisp. The mountains of his favorites sat in new Tupperware: fried chicken and pork chops, okra with tomato and corn, fresh yeast rolls, collard greens, black-eyed peas with butter rice, potato salad, lemon meringue pie, sweet potato pie, blackberry cobbler and more. All made with a certainty that Ephram, hungry and guilty, would surely be home by sunset with his tail on a plate.
As she looked about the house the practical business of life without him began to unroll before her. Without the new bags coming home every day from the Piggly Wiggly, her larder would soon run low. And what was she to do? Walk the mile to P & K and tote her own bags home? Past the Rankins’ land and everyone wandering down to Bloom’s Juke come evening? Even paying some young man to do it would have proved shameful, as if she had no family, no relation who cared enough to tend to her needs. Where would she get her stamps? Who would post her letters? Who would accompany her to purchase her wigs in Newton and so much more?
Celia sat upon the plastic slipcovers on her mint velour sofa. It was not only the loss of him, but who had gained. Ruby Bell was not just a girl. Celia knew what she was and how she had become that way. Celia was one of the few women in Liberty who knew about the pit fires. Others whispered over white ashes, but she had been there. She had seen the thing one evening and seen the girl who took delight in sin and debauchery. That girl was Ruby Bell.
Celia felt her stomach grip and churn with fear for her boy. A hunger rose from her body, and she crept into the kitchen. Bowls upon bowls of a glistening Sunday repast waited. Celia ate. She gnawed chicken to the bone and scraped the cartilage. She gulped unchewed mouthfuls of perfectly seasoned okra, corn bread found near the back, rolls crammed too full in her mouth for her molars to bite down. She stuffed and stuffed until food fell down her gown, pushing the handfuls almost to the back of her throat, so that her breath was labored and the food locked in her throat. Then she padded to the bathroom, knelt down on the pink shag throw rug. Her hands met her lips, her fingers white from pressing together. She let them part and slid two fingers into her throat. She pressed a secret button and up it all came in a gush. In a matter of seconds it was done. Her body shook like a train screeching to a stop. Then she was empty. After she washed her hands, she used the same two fingers to pull the lever on the toilet. She turned away as it all swirled down.
It had been years since Celia had prayed on the bathroom floor and her throat burned from the effort. At fourteen, after her mama left, it had somehow helped her to manage the business of living and raising Ephram and taking care of her daddy — but it had begun when she was twelve, the night Ruby dragged her daddy into hellfire, where he swam, and eventually drowned.
In those days, Celia trailed after her papa. She didn’t know why, except that he needed looking after. Her mama kept her eyes on Ephram and didn’t seem to care much about Celia, much less her own husband. Celia had noticed how she always looked down at the ground when he came into the room, or busied herself with the wash — any little thing to keep herself too high and proud for her daddy. Being educated like she was, she liked to lord it over him.