Bishop's Road (41 page)

“Right,” says Ruth. “Like that girl ever got up early when she didn't have to.”

If Maggie hadn't taken up with the crowd she met at church that time when her dad wanted her to come along she'd have been concerned before now, surely, but all of a sudden she has a social life where there was none and is busy having a good time. Everyone who should, thinks that Ginny Mustard has been returned to prison so there's no point in asking at the hospital if Judy has come to visit and one would have to be gifted with a wilder imagination than Maggie's to figure out what's really going on around here.

Judy will not leave Frankie's side. Now that she's convinced he moved she refuses to go anywhere at all. She hasn't seen the light of day for ages and is terribly pale for want of sun and fresh air. Nurse Edna brings her meals and snacks when other patients refuse to eat what can best be described as airline food without the fun of going anywhere, but Judy is not interested and the magic has left her eyes. Everything she has goes to Frankie. She gives willingly and he sucks the life out of her. Wraps her arms around him and prays harder than she ought. If there's any justice the boy will wake while there's still something left of her. Nurse Edna is worried to death but there's not much she can do.

Joe Snake and his mom are heading home. Sadie called
one of the neighbours who told her that an odd-looking woman has taken up with Annie Paul and yes, she is pregnant. No one knows her name because Annie Paul will only say she's a friend from away but she sure sounds like the one Sadie describes. Lucy and Mr. Benoit have opted to remain in the city. Lucy, because she wants to and Mr. Benoit to keep an eye on her at Sadie's insistance.

“…the rain is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain…”

If Ruth were to be honest with herself - and she is of an age to do that now, because at this point on the journey one must take to drugs or develop a close relationship with the demon rum or similar in order to avoid face to face confrontation with what-ever ails one - she would admit that Patrick's indifference to Joanie's plight has little to do with her telling him to frig off.

The rain is full of ghosts tonight\
Ruth's ghosts in particular and the one who stands out is Bill, less fuzzy than all the others since they were mere substitutes for the real thing anyway. And she can damn Sarah all to hell if she wants to, which she does regularly, but if it weren't for her meddling Ruth might have kept the secret from herself that she loves Bill and has forever.

The dampness is in her bones - she's of an age to feel that as well - and it saddens her. The sky was boiling with clouds before six o'clock and there was no purple on the hills when the sun went down and if there's a moon tonight how would anyone know? Ruth prepared a little dinner for herself and ate it right out of the saucepan with a wooden spoon, staring through the window at the black rain which is a sure sign that a woman's heart is heavy.

This afternoon she thought of looking for Bill and has been trying to talk herself out of it for hours.

“Even if I could track him down, a big if since all I have to go on is a name and a town, he probably looks old by now, fat and ugly.”

“He said it was the smallest town in Texas, how hard could it be to find him? And you're no spring chicken yourself, you know.”

“At least I'm not fat and ugly.”

“What makes you so sure that he is?”

“Shut up!”

“No, you shut up!”

But Ruth doesn't shut up and gets no sleep at all with the argument going on in her head and she's crabbier than she's ever been when she leaves for work in the morning.

Patrick is a most patient man. Always has been. He has finally realized that Ruth's reasons for dumping him are not true and has resigned himself to the waiting game. He's thinking of asking Sarah if she knows what's really going on but is in no rush. Ruth will come around again. He refuses to believe that their relationship is done and over with no matter what she says. Patrick has had several close encounters with women but never with someone like Ruth. All of the others had looked out for him. Plied him with home cooking and made sure he had gloves on in the winter, talked him into buying decent clothes now and then and told him which tie to wear with what shirt. They feigned interest in the things he likes and bought him cards for no reason and finally left when they realized he wasn't going to marry them. Ruth has never done anything for him that he can recall and doesn't
care one way or the other how he dresses or if his shoes are polished. She says he's big enough and ugly enough to look after him-self and he loves that about her.

If he knew what she is thinking right now he might be inclined to worry but maybe not. Perhaps he knows that the way things were don't exist but in a person's mind and there's nothing can be done to make them real again. It's always a shock to go home to the house you grew in if you've been away for long. Houses shrink when you don't live in them. So do parents when you aren't looking. The taffeta dress you wore that time rustles when you wear it in dreams far more than it ever did for real, and the boy who loved you and held you smells better, tastes better in memory than he will at the reunion.

Somewhere else on this planet but at this very moment, Bill is musing the same thoughts. Wife Four is packing her bags and heading out - for good this time she says - and he is thinking fondly of the first woman who tossed him aside and wondering what she's up to. He never got over her really, though anyone looking wouldn't have guessed it in a million years the way he carries on. In his mind's eye he can see her if he thinks hard enough. Being dumped at an early age has the same effect as being smacked around by a parent when you are only six or seven. You limp with it for the rest of your life unless you get professional help and even then it will take close to forever to heal yourself. Sometimes you must return to the scene of the crime and do the yelling you couldn't at the time. If the same person dumped you or smacked you after you've lived fifty years you'd just say piss off and get out of my sight you big jerk, and go about your business. There are advantages to age that youth cannot imagine. Bill knows that he and Ruth will never be what they were to each other and that's fine, but he's been drinking while Four gathers her under-wear and books and is at that point when a person is inclined to lie to himself to feel better, three scotch rocks no water on an
empty stomach, six if he's had a bite to eat lately.

Bill has no idea where Ruth may be, but he does recall that she has or had a brother and he does recall where that brother lives or lived and he does recall that somewhere in the attic is everything he ever owned, including address books from earlier times. He's comfortable in his armchair though, and waits until he hears the front door slam - harder than last time - maybe she really means it - before hauling himself up over the stairs to shake the dust off his ghosts.

There are photographs, cruel photographs that never change, to keep memory alive as we curse reality. Better we all have portraits, as did the enviable Dorian Grey, to keep us slim and smooth, glowing on the outside, with calories and wrinkles visited on canvas, safe under wraps among useless toasters and three-legged chairs and carvings of spotty cows that Grandma made that time she lived in the country and thank God we don't have to bring them out every time she visits now that she's dead and buried.

Only two pictures of Ruth. She was never one to pose and Bill liked to set the scene so by the time he was ready to snap she had wandered off. These were taken by a buddy. On a beach where they had gone to boil lobsters and he'd had his first taste of June snow. Ruth in his big old flight jacket with his dogtags around her neck. He had given them to her when his stint was over. When he didn't need them any more to prove he was who he was if he'd been blown to bits and those bits carried home in a box. He wonders if she has them still.

Joe Snake does not care to return to the place of his birth. It never became a source of comfort with the distance he put
between it and himself. It was always too small for him and he has no fond memories of fishing with his dad or chatting with the neighbours, of celebrations or old friends. He recalls too clearly the tightness of it with everyone breathing down his neck and smothering him with thinking they knew him inside out. He can't imagine how his wife can possibly cope without her treasured solitude. A small town is a hard place for an introvert.

No need to trouble yourself, Joe Snake. Ginny Mustard is fine. Annie Paul has taught her to swim and she is this very minute floating baby side up on the lake with the full moon, following a trail of light that turns the water on her naked belly to a stream of diamonds. She will stay there until Annie Paul comes down to the shore and calls her home. Ginny Mustard has no problem with the smallness of the town. She rarely goes beyond the garden and when she does happen upon a stranger she smiles a silent hello and carries on. No one else comes to the lake at night and that's her time to swim since she likes to take off all her clothes and Annie Paul suggested she not do that in broad daylight if she can possibly help it.

When Joe Snake arrives she is overjoyed to see him. When she makes all the connections she marvels again at how little the world really is. Annie Paul is irritated that she couldn't see it coming but recovers in time to whip up a celebratory meal of mussel chowder and trout with all of the spinach and chard thinnings from the garden and wild little dandelion leaf salad which they eat under the stars, except for Sadie Benoit who takes her share to her own kitchen table, thank you anyway.

Ginny Mustard does not want to return to the city. She wants to stay here in the clean air and live forever. Joe Snake says he hates to disappoint her but unless she is returned to prison before anyone finds she's missing, it will take that much longer for her to be free. There's always the chance of parole in December. And if not, she'll be out anyway in another eighteen months. And
yes, she can live here then if she wants to and yes, he will build her a teepee just like Annie Paul's and he will bring her trout from the lake and shellfish from the ocean and he will dig a garden and help her plant flowers and vegetables and he will hunt rabbits and sea birds and swim with her in the moonlight, gather moss and old man's beard to stuff her mattress and feathers for her hair if that's what she wants but not yet, precious, not yet. “First we have to get you back under lock and key.”