Red Ruby Heart in a Cold Blue Sea (9781101559833) (7 page)

11

T
hat night, Daddy hit an all-time-high drunk with a bottle of vodka. By the time I'd gotten home from school, half a fifth had gone down his gullet and he staggered as he warmed up a can of beans for me and him. Grand called just before supper and he said to her, “Oh, juss fine ma. Juss leave us alone. We're fine. Juss fine. Beans're burning. Gotta go.” He hung up and scraped the beans out of the pan and onto our plates. I stared at the scorched beans on my plate and burst into tears. Daddy didn't say anything to me; he just picked up the bottle of vodka and went into the living room. He sat down heavy in his chair, and it whined with the weight he threw at it. I threw my supper into the garbage and ran over to Grand's house.

“Daddy's drunk,” I said. “He gave me burned beans for supper.”

Grand pursed her lips. Then she warmed me up some American chop suey and let me eat it in front of the television while she sat and knitted. Her needles flashed faster and faster as we sat there. A rare scowl creased her handsome old face.

“You mad at Daddy?” I asked.

“Hard to be mad when he's so broke up,” she said. “Hard to be patient, too, I guess. Jesus tests us in ways we can't even imagine.”

“Daddy's ignoring Jesus, I think,” I said. “Me and Jesus.”

“He's down deep, Florine, down deep,” Grand said. “He's trying to make sense of what happened, not that I approve of the way he's doing it, but before he can come back to the light and love of Jesus, he's got to wrestle with the devil.”

I'd always pictured the devil as red, with a pitchfork, like the one on the deviled ham can. But maybe, for Daddy at least, the devil was a clear, sharp liquid.

“What about me?” I asked. “We got to get on with it, he said. Well, I'm trying.”

“I know,” Grand said. “Jesus is easier on young ones, I guess.”

I almost spit chop suey onto the coffee table in front of me. I loved Grand, but if she thought what Jesus was putting me through was easy, then Jesus was full of crap.

Someone opened Grand's front door, and Daddy shouted, “Ma, you seen Florine?”

“In here,” Grand called. Daddy leaned against the doorframe to the living room. He looked from Grand to me and back again.

“Dammit, Ma,” he said to Grand, “stop messing with us. We can manage juss fine.”

And he burst into tears, so I did too, and this time I did spit my food back into my plate. Grand put down her knitting and said, “In the kitchen. Both of you.”

“Can't do this,” Daddy sobbed, sitting down at the table. “I'm goin' crazy out of my head.”

“We got to do it, Daddy,” I sobbed. “We got to get on with things. You said so.”

“Who the hell tol' you that?” Daddy said. “Some asshole? Can't stop thinking of what god-awful trouble Carlie might have gotten mixed up into. Can't think of nothin' else. Can't do nothin' else. Drink, maybe.”

“You can do more than that,” Grand said. “But you got to put one foot in front of the other.”

“Got no choice,” Daddy said, wiping his hand over his wet face. “Got no choice.”

The teakettle shrieked, but before Grand could pour the tea, Daddy's soggy thoughts veered in another direction and he decided we had to go home, right then, so across the road we went, me half holding him up. I went to bed to cry some more and to talk to Carlie before I went to sleep. Daddy was on the phone at midnight to Parker, yet again.

Sometime after that, Pastor Billy Krum showed up. I woke to hear him knocking at the door. “This is Billy,” he shouted to Daddy. “Let me in, for chrissake.”

Pastor Billy ran the white church down the road. Sundays, he was a preacher. Every other day, he hauled lobsters off Spruce Point. He and Daddy had gone to school together. Daddy never went to church, but Billy and he played poker together.

“I ain't letting you in,” Daddy shouted, but I ran to the door. I stared at Billy on the other side of the door like he was some night angel.

He smiled, his blue eyes kind. “You going to let me in, Florine?”

So I did, and then Billy said, “You'd probably best go back to bed,” and so I lay there and listened as he let Daddy puke up remarks that only a devil would spit out without being embarrassed. He wailed away, saying things like, “What did I do to drive her off? Why did she leave me? I should have treated her better. It's my fault. God damn the bitch to hell. What was she thinking? I hope she's dead, because if she isn't, I'm going to kill her.” Billy's answers were soft, when he gave them. Mostly, he let Daddy go on and somehow, together, they wrestled the devil back to hell for the night. I fell asleep at about four in the morning.

A couple of hours later, Billy woke me for school. This was the second time in two nights that I hadn't slept much. But I didn't dare to disagree with God's messenger. He handed me a lunch that Grand had bagged up for me and delivered to him.

Before I went out the door, Billy said to me in his voice made of gravel and honey, “Florine, you are one of God's angels, straight from heaven. And God don't give his angels anything they can't handle.”

I pondered that as I walked to the bus. If I was an angel, why couldn't I fly somewhere and find my mother? And where the hell was heaven, anyway? Thoughts pinged around my brain like moths looking for a light. I didn't want to face Dottie, Bud, and Glen. I didn't want to face Rose. I didn't want to face anyone. The bus was at the stop when I reached it and I sat in a seat by myself toward the middle. When Rose's stop came and she got on, she spied me and waved. I sank lower in my seat but she plunked herself down beside me anyway. “Hold out your hand,” she said, “I found this for you.” She put a heart-shaped pink rock into my palm.

12

L
ater that day, as Rose and I struggled through her math lesson, the school principal's deep voice came over the intercom.

“Please return to your classrooms,” he ordered.

“He sounds like God,” Rose said, and we giggled as we walked back to the room.

It was dead quiet, with all eyes on Mrs. Richmond. She stood in front of her desk, her face as serious as I'd ever seen it. “Sit down, Florine. Rose,” she said, and we did. Then she said to the class, “I have some very bad news. President Kennedy was shot this morning in Dallas, Texas. I'm sorry to tell you he just died.” She took a tissue from the pocket of her Friday suit, lifted her glasses off her nose, and wiped at her eyes.

At least they know what happened to him, I thought. Then I felt bad for thinking that. Rose turned around in her seat and said to me, “My Poppy said the Russians would kill him and they did. Will they bomb us now he's dead? Poppy says they hate us.”

I said, “I don't know.”

“The buses will be by soon to take you home,” Mrs. Richmond said. “I imagine you'll be out for some days next week. We'll let your parents know for sure.”

“Shouldn't we stay here?” Rose asked me. “Shouldn't we get under our desks?”

“They want us to go home,” I said.

Outside, she held my hand and looked up at the sky—for Russian bomber planes I guess—and we joined Dottie, Bud, and Glen near the bus stop. We looked across the road at the house on the other side. A brown dog sitting on the front steps looked back at us. He was hitched up to a thick rope. He yawned.

“I wonder if they let that dog in when it's cold,” Bud said. “They should let that dog in. Even hunting dogs should be taken inside.”

“I bet they do,” Dottie said. “Otherwise, he'd be ugly. He doesn't look ugly.”

“Maybe he wants some bologna,” Glen said. “I got some in my lunch bag.”

Sam Warner pulled into the schoolyard and we walked toward his car. “I got to go uptown, before they close all the friggin' stores,” he said to us through the open driver's window. “Get in, Bud.”

“Okay,” Bud said, and Glen climbed in with him.

“You two want to come?” Sam asked Dottie and me.

Rose took our hands. “Please stay with me,” she said.

“We'll take the bus,” I said, and Sam drove away.

Rose sat beside me on the bus. “My Poppy says the Russians have bombs that could blow the whole world up. I don't want to be blown up.” She leaned against me. Her hair smelled like dust.

“We're going to die,” she said.

“No, we're not,” I said, but I wasn't so sure. The world appeared to be made of a dangerous quicksand that could suck down mothers or presidents at any time. What was to stop it from grabbing on to our ankles and dragging us down, too?

When the bus stopped at Rose's road, she said, “Will you come with me? I'm scared I'm going to get bombed going down the road.”

“I'll walk you off the bus,” I said.

“Her, too,” she pointed at Dottie, who sat across from us.

“What?” Dottie asked.

“We're walking her off the bus,” I said.

Tillie Clemmons, our bus driver, was blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “Where do you two think you're going?” she asked.

“We're walking her off the bus,” Dottie said.

“Okay,” Tillie said. “Hurry it up.”

Then Parker drew his cruiser up next to the bus and Tillie cracked open her window and talked down to her husband. We walked Rose to the top of a steep hill that, we supposed, led to her house. And Tillie forgot why she'd stopped, I guess, because when Parker drove off, she put the bus into gear and left Dottie and me stranded.

“What the hell,” Dottie said. “Now what?”

“Walk me home?” Rose asked.

I looked up at the milky sky and wished for Tillie to turn around. Surely, someone on the bus knew we were missing. Dottie asked Rose, “How far down is your house?”

“Not far,” Rose said.

“Can your father give us a ride home?” Dottie said.

Rose nodded.

“Might as well walk you home, then,” Dottie said, and we traipsed down the muddy road, scuffing through piles of yellow leaves that filled deep ruts made by tires. The rusted remains of old cars junked up the sides of the road.

“You sad about the president?” I asked Dottie.

“I don't know,” Dottie said. “I can't think of what to feel.”

“Did you hear a plane?” Rose said, ducking. “There might be a plane up there.”

We walked down, down and down, then Dottie said, “Don't take this wrong, Rose, but are we walking to hell or what? Where's your jeezly house?”

“There,” Rose said, pointing toward what looked like more trees to us.

“How does your dad get up this road?” Dottie asked. “It's ruts in search of a road, looks like to me.”

“He doesn't go up this road since his truck broke down,” Rose said.

We stopped. We both looked at Rose, and then we looked at each other. “How are we supposed to get home?” I asked Dottie. “Walk?”

“We can call Leeman,” Dottie said. “You got a telephone, Rose?” she asked.

Rose nodded.

“You sure you got a phone?” Dottie asked again.

Rose nodded again.

“Daddy isn't home, most likely,” I said. “What about Madeline?”

“She went uptown to get her hair done,” Dottie said.

“Maybe the place is closed,” I said, “on account of the president.”

A low rumble sounded over the crackle of leaves.

“What's that?” I asked, and then I slipped and fell into a rut, getting mud all over my legs and dress. “Shit,” I said. “Grand's gonna have a cow.”

Dottie laughed. So did Rose.

“Not funny,” I said.

“Yes it is,” Dottie said. “You should see your ass.”

“Well I'd have to be a giraffe, now wouldn't I?” I said.

“Don't get pissed off at me,” Dottie said. “I didn't push you down.”

“Where's your house?” I snapped at Rose.

“There,” Rose said, pointing at nothing.

“I don't see the house,” I said. “Do you live in a house?”

“Hey,” Dottie said.

“I'm sorry,” I said, brushing mud from my underpants and thighs. “It's just that we got to get home soon.”

The rumbling grew closer and louder.

“What is that noise?” I asked.

“Sounds like something growling,” Dottie said.

“It's Bigger,” Rose said.

“What's a Bigger?” I asked.

In about thirty seconds, we knew.

Bigger was a gigantic black dog with short pointed ears. His mouth was flecked with pinkish foam. He was tied to a tree by a thick rusty chain. He looked at Rose and she must have triggered a spark in his dim brain because for about five seconds, he wagged his mangy crooked tail. Then he figured out he'd never seen us.

Dottie and I jumped back as he lunged at us full throttle with his teeth bared. The chain snapped to a straight line and I said, “Dottie, let's just run.” But Dottie was pointing to something. “Jesus, look at that,” she said.

A doe deer hung by its neck from a pine tree branch close to Bigger. Her tongue stuck out in a sickish pink brown mass. Her belly had been ripped open and her guts and stomach looped along the ground. I hoped she'd died before she'd been strung up.

“Bigger won't bite,” Rose said.

“Who the hell are you?” a man's voice boomed, and I grabbed Dottie's arm as we spun toward the sound.

A giant of a man stood about ten feet away from us. His dirty gray and brown beard fell over his chest like chewed-up pot-roast string. His flannel shirt may have been red and black once, if it had ever been new. His faded blue jeans were soaked with old and new stains that looked like old and new blood. He held a dirty shovel in his hands.

“This is my Poppy,” Rose said. “This is Dottie and Florine. They walked me home. I was afraid of the Russians.”

“What the hell you talking about, Rose?” Poppy said.

Dottie and I began to take steps backwards.

“What you mean about the Russians, Rose?” Poppy asked again. “Bigger, shut the fuck up.” He reached over and smacked the dog up the side of the head with the shovel. Bigger yelped and cringed away to the far end of his chain.

“You know what she's talking about?” Poppy asked us and we stopped, lest we have our heads bashed in by the shovel.

“The president died,” I said. “President Kennedy got shot.”

Poppy laughed like a full winter moon might sound if it took a mind to have a good guffaw. Then he stopped just as sudden, and he said, “You don't say. Someone finally had the sense to splatter his brains all over hell? This is a good day, Rose.”

He reached down and rubbed the top of her head, just like Daddy did to me from time to time. I suddenly wanted to be with him more than anything I'd ever wanted in my life.

“Where you live?” Poppy asked. “You live around here?” He stepped toward us.

“Spruce Point,” Dottie said, naming another point five miles away from us. “We got to go. See you in school, Rose.” And Dottie gave me a shove to get us started.

When Rose said, “Goodbye,” we ran, certain we'd feel the hot, hellhound breath of Bigger before he ripped out our calves, or Poppy's shovel staving in our skulls. We ran when we reached Route 100 and we ran toward The Point, about three miles away.

We were so scared that the sound of a car prompted Dottie to yell, “Hide!” We hit the ditch on the side of the road. The car whizzed by and when the noise died away, we got up. We ran, walked, and jumped into ditches. We ripped our dresses and scratched up our legs, arms, and hands. We reached Ray's at dusk. Daddy's truck was just turning onto the road. He pulled over and he and Bert jumped out.

“Where have you been?” Daddy cried and grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Don't you ever do that to me again. You hear?” His haunted eyes filled with tears.

We clung to each other.

Everyone on The Point ended up at Grand's to watch the president's funeral; to see the jumpy horse they called Black Jack with the boots turned backward in the stirrups of the saddle, to listen to the drums, and to cry when John John saluted the casket.

And where was Carlie? Was she in the crowd that lined the streets along the funeral parade? Did she miss me like I missed her? Was she as lost as the rest of us?

School started up again on Tuesday. Dottie and I sat together one seat ahead of Glen and Bud. As we got closer to Rose's stop, we didn't slow down. Tillie beeped at the driver of a smaller school bus stopped at the end of Rose's road as we drove past.

“That's the retard bus,” Glen said, and everyone went quiet.

Dottie said, “Maybe them teachers will help her. Might be the only thing saves her.”