Leaving: A Novel
Authors: Richard Dry
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Contents
TO MY PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE:
MY MOTHER, FATHER, WIFE, AND FRIENDS
TO RUBY
AND TO THE KIDS:
MAY YOU KNOW THE RIVER
SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS CHILD, A LONG WAY FROM MY HOME.
—Traditional, author unknown
THE END IS IN THE BEGINNING AND LIES FAR AHEAD.
—Ralph Ellison,
Invisible Man
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1A
ON JUNE 19,
1959, Ruby Washington traveled through Texas on a bus from Norma, South Carolina, to Oakland, California, with her thirteen-year-old half brother, Love Easton Childers. They sat across from the toilet, the septic fumes souring the air. Ruby’s forehead rested against the hot window, and Easton, or Love E as Ruby alone could call him—which she pronounced “Lovey,” like an adoring wife—slept on her loose shoulder, his mouth open, bouncing with the bus over the highway. Even in sleep, he brushed at his cheek with his fingertips as if shooing away a persistent fly.
Ruby pulled her brother’s hand from his face and held it down in her lap. At twenty-one, she was a large woman. She’d always been big-boned with meaty hips and shoulders, a body shaped like an acoustic guitar. She watched a stretch of fence alongside the highway, small purple and yellow flowers growing against the lower rung of wire. A red-tailed hawk lifted itself from one of the posts and flew over the farmland, then circled smoothly above the houses and gentle hills. She followed the hawk with her eyes, tilting her head and feeling every turn of its wings as it sailed across all that luxurious space.
The bus hit a pothole and Ruby held both hands on her stomach. She waited, holding her breath. She’d never heard of a baby being shaken loose from a bumpy ride, but already her life had been filled with things she’d never heard of happening to anyone else. It wasn’t even a baby yet, just a kidney bean inside her, but Ruby felt her as much as a full-grown baby girl. She imagined her with Ronald’s dark eyes and his long, beautiful lashes. The sadness started to grip her again in her belly. Then the tightness of anger spread through her chest. There are certain things people never imagine living without, and faced with their loss, their minds make up ways to circumnavigate the truth of their senses, inventing conspiracies or forgotten clues. It had been so dark when they’d taken him away; she’d had to leave town before the funeral; the paper had talked about sending him to Charleston. She preferred to believe in false hope rather than despair. She had decided it was her God-given duty.
She looked out the window and searched for the hawk again. It was climbing higher into the clouds, and as she watched, it swooped out of sight. When it was gone, she realized how tightly her teeth were clamped together, and she forced herself to breathe out a steady, circular stream of air. She had to forget. For she feared that the tightness and pain of memory would suffocate her child right there inside her.
So she told a story. She put her hand on Easton’s hair and spoke to him softly:
“Love E, didn I ever tell you ’bout dat boy who gon chasin de angels?”
Easton shook his head and kept his eyes closed. He spoke English only as Ronald had taught him, what he called “News English,” but Ruby’s stories in her own voice were like her soft lap to rest his mind into.
“Well he wasn no fool, dis boy. He foun hisself a fisbin net an a fishin hook an he was waitin up in de tree for de angels to pass on by. He knew dem angels has to come by soon fo his mama who jus pass on dat night. Well de firs angel dat come on by fell right into his trap an he scoop him up wit his net. You listnin to me?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Well de angel had to give him wishes. ‘I know what you want,’ say de angel. ‘You want fo me to bring yo mama back to life.’
“‘No,’ say de boy. ‘I want a great big castle.’ An wit a clap a lightnin he had a big ole castle. Den he aks for all de money in de worl, an wit a clap a lightnin a whole hill a money an gole rise up.
“‘Now dis is yo las wish,’ say de angel. ‘I know you got to want fo me to bring yo mama back to life.’
“‘No,’ say de boy.
“‘Well what you want den? Tell me quick, so I can go on ’bout my regular business.’
“‘Well,’ say de boy. ‘I want you to make me White.’
“‘Make you White?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘You sure dat’s what you want, more den bring yo mama back to life?’
“‘Yes,’ say de boy. ‘Now make me White.’
“‘Alright,’ say de angel.
“De boy hold his arm up to his face to watch his skin turn. A clap a lightnin wen off, an he watch his arm fo his color to change. He waited, but nothin happen. De boy look up at de angel and yell, ‘You got to keep yo promise, you an angel.’ But den he see somethin movin round de corner of de house. Out from a bush step his mama, standin tall and mean as a mountain lion, walkin at de boy like she gonna et him up. Well de boy gone jus ’bout out a his mine.
“‘But you promised to make me White,’ yell de boy. He jump out the tree and start to run away.
“‘I sure did,’ say de angel. ‘An jus look at yo’self, you as white as a sheet.’” Ruby shook her head and laughed, but Easton had fallen asleep again.
She looked at her half brother drooling a little on her sleeve. He was now her responsibility. And she was glad for it, for that distraction, and for someone who could remind her, even in his sleepy silence, that she was not alone with her memories.
She’d never left South Carolina before, never gone farther than fifty-three miles to Charleston—and there only once, when she was seven, to see a parade for her real papa, who supposedly hadn’t come home from the war in Europe. Just as she was getting to understand how there could be a parade for someone who didn’t show up to the parade, she found out that he had come back after all, just not back to them. There was no telling what kind of man her real papa, Papa Corbet, would be, but if he beat Love E like Papa Samuel had, she promised herself that she’d take him away. They could always try to live on their own in California.
* * *
THEY PULLED INTO
the Oakland Greyhound station at ten in the morning. As Ruby sat on a bench and waited for the driver to fetch baggage, she unfolded a black bandanna in her lap, shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand, and counted it again: forty-seven dollars. All the money they’d earned from the last batch of dresses. Among the bills was a slip of paper with her father’s address and a phone number for the West Oakland Army Base.
Easton played cards with a boy from the bus. Ignoring all the colored children, Easton had chosen to play with this White boy on the ride over, even though he hadn’t known crazy eights and Easton hadn’t known gin. They’d settled on hearts, which Easton hadn’t known either, but the boy taught him well enough to win two out of five hands.
The boy’s mother came over and picked her son up by the wrist.
“All right, that’s plenty.” She brushed off his pants, licked two of her fingers, wet back his hair, and pulled him away to stand among the adults. Easton wandered back to Ruby, who was watching for the trunk they’d brought.
“I thought your father was killed in the war,” he said to his half-sister. He brushed his right cheek with his fingertips.
“I guess he ain’t dead no more.” She scooted over on the carved wooden bench and patted it for Easton to come sit next to her.
“Is your father big?” he asked.
“I don’t recollect.”
“Does he scold with a switch?”
“You find out soon enough.”
Easton watched his friend leave with his mother and father.
“They ours,” Ruby said, pointing to a dark green trunk. “Help me carry it.” Inside the trunk were all the belongings they could fit for both of them, including the sewing machine. They carried the trunk out front and convinced a cabby to take them for a dollar.
On the drive, they passed through the heart of West Oakland. Seventh Street was alive with people—colored people. Ruby had never seen so many finely dressed men, bustling along the street in their double-breasted jackets, and women with flowered hats (and some in fur coats!) standing in the doorways of shops just as if they owned them. Bright red trolley cars ran down the middle of the street in both directions. On either side were stores packed shoulder to shoulder in the brick buildings. Every shop had a striped awning. Long vertical signs jutted out from their facades with bold names announcing their services and proprietors: Borden’s Candy and Ice Cream, Adeline Station Hotel, GLOW, Dine and Dance at Slim Jenkins’ Supper Club. There were furniture stores and barbershops, beauty salons and soda fountains, all patronized by Negroes and, as far as she could tell, all run by Negroes too. There were Negro shoe-shine boys shining Negroes’ shoes, white-jacketed Negro pharmacists in the pharmacy, and Negro lawyers sitting behind their desks in the window-front law offices; it was like the movies, but everybody had turned colored.
“Tremendous,” Easton said, his favorite of Ronald’s words. He pressed his finger up against the window. The produce bins on the sidewalk were piled high with oranges, striped watermelons, apples, grapes, plums, and peaches. “I bet those peaches came from South Carolina. Johnston is the peach capital of the world, you know?”
“That fruit might have come from China,” said the cabby. “You’re in a port town, man. You think it’s fancy now, you should have seen it before the bridge. The ferries used to cross to the city from here, so everyone came on through town. The trains were running and we were still building ships over at Moore’s. Roast beef
and
pork chops every night, man.” He stretched his arm across the top of the seat as if relaxing after a good meal. “Then come the airplanes and there’s no need for the Pullman porters either. Trust me, man, people don’t spend the way they used to. Some of the shops already moved out.”
