Patterns of Swallows (35 page)

"He
told me. In verse six," Ruth said, catching her mother-in-law's
eye with the corner of her own.

They
held each other's gaze for a second, and then another "canned
peaches" episode erupted. With tears streaming and a stitch in
her side, Ruth could hardly keep the car on the road.

When
they were both calm again, Ruth said, "I'll have to apologize to
him next Sunday. Maybe something did need to be said, but not by me,
and not like that. I know it wasn't the time and the place. And if
Paul told Timothy to, 'rebuke not an elder,' I know I had no business
saying what I said. At least not there and not like that. Besides,
I know
my
motives weren't pure. He just got my dander up by telling me I
didn't know the Bible, so I decided to show him he was wrong about
that."

"Next
Sunday?" Mom said, latching onto the first part of Ruth's
statement. "You mean you really are planning on attending with
me. I thought after today ... "

"I
told your pastor I was planning on attending regularly. After today,
if you don't want me to, I can understand why ..."

"No,
no, that's not it at all. I just thought you wouldn't want to go
back. After that sermon, I mean. And the people weren't exactly
friendly. I was embarrassed by them, too, I have to admit. When you
said you were planning on attending, I thought you were just being
polite. But I should know better than that by now."

"Right!
You should know by now I don't worry about being polite," Ruth
said, teasing (somewhat).

"I
just meant, I should know you don't say things that aren't
true
just to be polite."

"Can't
argue with that one."

"And
of course you're welcome to come. At least, I'd be glad to have you
there."

"Good!
You'll be one, anyways. I can't imagine Reverend, I mean, Pastor
Harper, will be thrilled to see me back, but like Bo said, having me
there will probably cut down on the snoozing in the pews."

"Oh
heavens! You're not going to start correcting the minister during
his sermons, are you?"

"I'll
try not. But no promises."

The
two laughed together again.

Ruth
wasn't sure why, but she knew she needed to go back the next Sunday.
When a person is hungry, even stale crusts are better than nothing.

*
* *

The
next Sunday, Pastor Harper made no references to Elvis Presley, rock
and roll, dancing, card-playing, or movie-going. The tone of the
sermon had gentled greatly, and Pastor Harper preached it with the
occasional casting of a wary eye on Ruth's face while trying not to.
Ruth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning cheekily back
at him.

She
duly made her apologies after the sermon, expressing sincere regret
for speaking out of turn. But she couldn't regret that her
outspokenness had possibly been the cause of the change in the
minister's preaching-style that Sunday.

*
* *

Mrs.
MacKellum held the receiver to her ear without saying anything for so
long it was obvious the person on the other end of the line had hung
up.

Her
face was expressionless.

Besides,
"Hello?" and, "Yes, speaking," Ruth had heard her
say nothing at all. Not even, "Thank you," or, "Good-bye."

"Mom,
what is it? Who was it?"

Ruth
went to her, unrealistically afraid for a moment that her
mother-in-law would faint the way people did in books after hearing a
piece of bad news. That was silly. In real life, people didn't
mercifully lose consciousness when mental pain became too great to
bear. Ruth would know. And Mom was not the fainting type.

Still,
Ruth brought a chair over to the telephone stand. Mom's knees were
anything but weak. They seemed rigid, unable to bend. Ruth made her
sit down forcibly.

"He's
dead," she whispered.

"Who's
dead?" Ruth asked. She'd imagined an unexpected creditor, some
long-forgotten repercussion of the mill going under, sending more bad
news through the phone line. She hadn't imagined death coming to
them over the wires.

"It
was the Vancouver R.C.M.P.," Mom said, still seeming unable to
raise her voice past a whisper. Or maybe she didn't want to speak
full-voice in case saying it aloud would make it true.

"Graham's
dead," she whispered.

Every
time Ruth had thought of Graham in the past seven months (which was
at least half the minutes of all the days since he'd left), the first
fresh moment of remembering had always brought searing pain with it –
pain so intense she would often literally gasp for breath, sure that
this time the pain would suffocate her.

She
kept telling herself it wouldn't always feel this way. At first, she
told herself that Graham would soon be back. Next week, Graham would
be back. Then, as too many next weeks had dragged on, she began
telling herself, next week it will be easier. She kept telling
herself one month ... three months ... five months was too soon for
the pain to stop. But next week ... Surely, the next week it would
get easier.

It
had been seven months, and she was still saying, "Next week,"
to herself.

Now
for the first time in those seven months, she stopped saying, "Next
week." She said nothing at all to herself. For the first time
in seven months, the thought of him brought no searing pain, no
gasping for breath. She felt nothing.

Graham
was dead. Her hopes for the two of them were dead. She was dead.

So
this was what it felt like!

Death
wasn't so bad, after all, if it was just this nothingness.

But
the nothingness couldn't last. No, death didn't mean, couldn't mean,
just ceasing to exist. That would be too easy.

"Did
they call you to identify him?" Ruth asked. She didn't know why
she'd asked that. Probably because she was curious. It was the only
thing she felt in the midst of the nothingness.

That
should have been my job. I'm still his wife
,
her inner voice said.

"No,
he's been identified. Lily put in the missing person report, and she
identified him when they found him." Mom's voice raised above a
whisper to attain a hoarse croak.

The
first sensation to replace the sensation of being nowhere and no one
was the sensation of her blood being on fire. This was a familiar
sensation. She knew this one by name. It was rage.

If
Ruth had had Lily Turnbull right there, right then, she could have
gladly pulled out her hair, clawed her face, spit at her. She
wouldn't have killed her. Then Ruth would have had to pay for Lily
Turnbull's crime. No, she would have hurt Lily in the ways that
would have hurt Lily more than death. She would have maimed her
beauty. Given Lily a disfiguring scar like her own.

If
our faces tell tales on us in spite of ourselves, Lily's face, like
the first murderer's, should bear the marks of what she'd done. It
would be only justice.

Ruth
knew then that the test she'd faced the morning after getting out of
hospital – the choice to live or not to live, the choice to
give in to bitterness or reject it – that choice had been only
the dress rehearsal. That had been only the practice test, just
preparation for this one. Here was the real thing.

Ruth
said nothing to her mother-in-law. She offered no comfort. She
couldn't. She had none to give.

She
walked quietly, rollingly, as though on tiptoe to her bedroom. Then
she shut and locked the door.

She'd
have to come out eventually. But she couldn't come out while rage
was surging through her veins and mastering her. She thought she
might have to stay in her room until they carried her out, stiff and
stinking.

Doris
Steiner, the postmistress, took Mrs. Turnbull's money and passed her
the stamps but took her time making the change.

"You've
heard about that young Graham MacKellum, haven't you, Edie?"
Doris said.

"Yes,
I've heard," Edith Turnbull said. A less determined gossip than
Doris Steiner would have recognized the warning signals in the
haughty lift of Mrs. Turnbull's head and the frost in her voice.

"Terrible
business," Mrs. Steiner said. "I've heard he had some kind
of an illness like his father. Depression, they call it; though I've
been depressed lots of times. Never been tempted to do anything like
that. No reason for it. Just pure selfishness, I say. No thought
for anyone else. The Catholics say it's a mortal sin and one you
can't be forgiven for. I heard they pulled him out of the ocean. Is
that so?"

"I
haven't really heard, Doris. I think you owe me some change."

Mrs.
Steiner made the change absently and went on with her own train of
thought.

"If
that's so, I don't see how they can know it was suicide for sure.
Unless he left a note. Do you know if he left a note?"

"I
haven't heard. Good-day, Doris."

Mrs.
Turnbull swept out the door in a tremendous hurry.

Lily
was nearly knocked off the front step of the post office as the door
opened much faster than was its usual wont.

"Mother!"
she said dramatically.

"Lily,"
her mother said in the icily-regal tones of offended royalty.

"Where
have you been? I've called and called on the telephone, and Florrie
answers and tells me that no one's at home. I came around to the
house three times yesterday evening, and every time Florrie told me
everyone was out, but she wouldn't tell me where you were, and she
wouldn't let me in. I had to sleep in the car last night."

"Being
that it was a hot summer night, I don't imagine it hurt you in the
slightest. You were in no danger of freezing."

"I
finally managed to get it out of her today where you were, that you'd
walked to the post office. Why won't you answer my phone calls? I'm
your daughter, for pity's sake!"

"Lily,
you're creating a scene. We're in the middle of main street for
heaven's sake. This is neither the time nor the place," Mrs.
Turnbull hissed at her.

"Well,
I think this is the only time and the only place to talk to you when
you won't answer the phone, and you won't let me into the house. I
know Florrie was only acting on your orders. How else am I supposed
to speak to you if not here?"

"Maybe
it would be better if you didn't try to speak to me at all,"
Lily's mother said in a low voice but one that carried to the
gathering audience who pretended to be window shopping or going about
their business. Mother and daughter were half-in and half-out of the
post office. Edith Turnbull had kept the door of the post office
open until she could decide which direction would afford her the best
route for flight – with the result that those inside the post
office (including the postmistress with active ears and a tongue to
match) and those outside the post office could all witness with equal
ease the unfolding drama.

"Are
you never going to speak to me again?" Lily's voice rose to a
wail.

"Lily,
would you stop? You're making yourself ridiculous."

"Mother!
I'm your daughter. I need you. Can't you see I'm in trouble?"

"I
can see that," Mrs. Turnbull said, her lips curling in righteous
distaste, casting a look at Lily's expanding midsection. The gesture
and the direction of her eyes were not lost on the watching crowd who
then also noticed the change in Lily's condition.

"I
didn't mean for it to happen. Any of it. It was a mistake. I'm
sorry, I'm sorry." Lily was sobbing into her hands and
hysterical at this point. "Please let me come back home. I
have nowhere else to go. We ran through all my money. Graham
couldn't keep a job. We ended up flat broke and got kicked out of
our apartment. I've been staying in a street mission for the past
week. I can't go back there; I can't go back to Vancouver. I've got
nowhere else to go. Please let me come home."