Drowning Ruth (35 page)

And then there was this girl, Imogene. He felt almost as if he'd conjured her up, the way he'd met her that night and then found her, sparkling and chattering, with her quick smile and easy laugh, at his mother's desk the next week. She clearly admired him, and his mother had indicated she would approve. “Sometimes a blank slate is best,” she'd said. “There's something to be said for a girl who's open to influence.” Theresa Owens
believed it was important to be broad-minded when it came to love.

Imogene was bright and pretty and obviously ambitious. She listened to concerts on the radio to teach herself to identify composers, and she asked his mother a hundred questions about the paintings on their walls. When his mother bought her a ticket to see
A Doll's House
with them in Milwaukee, Imogene found a copy at the library and read it twice, and also
Hedda Gabler
and
The Wild Duck
for good measure. Out of the corner of his eye, as he sat next to her in the theater, he saw her mouthing the lines. He knew it was patronizing of him, but he found her attempts to become cultured endearing. And beyond her looks and her charm, he admired her sense of certainty. She knew where she wanted to go and how to get there. It was tempting to align himself with someone like that, a woman who would take him in hand.

Imogene's friend, however, confused him. Ever since that first night when Ruth had told him about her mother drowning, he'd wanted to say to her, “I found her. She's the lady in the ice.” That her mother had called to him through that glassy blackness, that he'd been the one to find her, to discover her blue skin and staring eyes, made him feel close to Ruth, who seemed to hold herself apart. In the drugstore he'd wanted to reach for a string of the hair that was always dripping down along her face, to twine it around his finger. At best, she looked ordinary. Her complexion was not especially clear, her eyes were too wide and her lips too narrow. Still, something reserved, even secretive, in her manner intrigued him. He was sure that she would take him somewhere he'd never been, somewhere he couldn't even imagine.

“You drive,” Imogene said to Ruth the following evening. “I'm too jumpy. You need the practice anyway.”

Imogene had given Ruth driving lessons the summer before, but they hadn't taken. She needed several tries to get the car moving, and she forgot to look left before she lurched into the road.

“Don't you think he should've picked me up tonight, Ruth?”

“But didn't he say he'd be driving out from town? That he'd be late? He wanted to be sure you were going, didn't he?”

“He was just being polite. Or curious. Or … I don't know, but he should take me somewhere on a real date, if he means for this to go on after he moves back to town.”

Ruth concentrated on keeping the wheels on the road.

“Did I tell you he gave me a four-leaf clover yesterday?”

“No,” Ruth said dutifully. She wished this would be over one way or another, Imogene and Arthur definitely together or definitely not. She wished she never had to hear another word about him. “I hope you pressed it immediately in a book of poetry,” she said.

Imogene buried her face in her hands and laughed. “Yes,” she admitted. “I don't know what I'm going to do if he doesn't say something soon. I think I'm in love with him, honest to God.”

She sat up straight in the seat then and changed her tone. “What I'm thinking is I should dance first with Bobby. Then maybe with Ray. Make him wait his turn. Let him wonder a little bit. The trouble is he can see me every day of the week, if he wants to. He
does
see me almost every day of the week, so he doesn't realize that if he wants to keep, you know,
seeing
me, one of these days, he's going to have to say something.”

Ruth was easing the car into the parking lot at the dance pavilion now. When she turned off the engine, music flooded through the open windows. It was the last dance of the summer. Already the vibrant green had begun to drain from the masses of leaves, and soon the world would draw itself into its hard shell. Even
in a month's time it would be nearly impossible to remember the smothery, soft lushness of summer nights. In a month's time Arthur Owens might be gone.

Imogene slammed the car door. “Now, Ruth,” she said, leaning on her friend to keep from tipping in her new high-heeled sandals, as they walked across the gravel, “if you see we're trying to be alone, you'll help me out, won't you? Distract Ray. You know how he loves to talk to you—he thinks you're a serious person. Or make him dance with that horrible Zita.”

The band had switched from a fast number to something dreamy and the brilliant pavilion seemed almost to float on the dark water, if you looked at it from the right angle. Even Ruth sensed its promise as she filled her lungs with the poignant air of the coming fall.

“He's still not here, is he?” Imogene whispered to Ruth as Ray escorted her back to their table.

But just then he was coming toward them. “Behind you,” Ruth whispered, and Imogene turned and intercepted him. As she led him by the hand smoothly onto the dance floor, he looked over his shoulder once toward Ruth, but she was turned away from him, talking to Ray.

“Not so hot tonight, is it?” Ray said.

“Yes, it's nice.” Arthur looked at me, Ruth thought, and felt ashamed.

“I suppose we could dance, if you want to,” Ray offered.

“Maybe in a little while.” It was ridiculous, despicable, wanting Arthur to look at her. Ruth felt a little sick to her stomach, thinking of it.

“Well, I'm about ready to get myself a drink. Want anything?”

“Yes, please, Ray. Whatever you're having.” While she waited for him to return with the drinks, Ruth tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that she was merely being foolish. After
all, a glance, a kindness, a dance, an idle compliment—they meant nothing, of course, nothing outside her own silly mind. But wasn't that the horror of it? That there was no true feeling between Arthur and herself, and still she would betray Imogene in her thoughts?

Ruth got up from the table and wandered over to peer through the screen at the winking carnival lights of Nagawaukee Beach across the lake. The waves, distinct in the streak of moonlight and invisible in the darkness on either side, seemed to move much more quickly than they did in the daytime, as if they were part of some frantic river. In their speed, they gave the illusion that the pavilion itself was sliding in the opposite direction, and Ruth had to grab the railing to keep her balance. She looked over her shoulder at the faces tilted back with laughter or forward in concentration.

“C'mon, Ruth,” Imogene said, tugging at her arm, “we're going out in the boat again.”

It was just as before, Arthur steadying the women in their unsteady shoes one by one as they stepped off the pier and Bobby, standing below, helping them find their footing in the boat. Everyone was talking, laughing, reminding Bobby to bring enough liquor, and ribbing him about the morning's race.

“I was starting to get dizzy watching you reround that mark,” Arthur said.

“I had to give you a chance to catch up. Wasn't I taking my spinnaker down before you'd even finished your reach?”

“But Maynard and Arthur picked the right side of the lake on the last windward leg,” Kitty put in. Ruth could tell she'd said it to prove she knew what they were talking about, while Ruth and Imogene did not.

Kitty paused a moment before stepping forward after she took Arthur's hand. “It isn't fair that you're always the last one in,” she said.

“I like my job, as long as Bobby doesn't leave without me.”

Kitty looked at Arthur significantly. “Shall I save you a seat?”

“Sure.” He sounded surprised, Ruth thought, taken aback, but still he said, “Sure.”

Kitty nodded. “See you soon, then.” And keeping her eyes down as she stepped from the gunwale to the seat, she wiggled the fingers of her free hand in the air.

Imogene, whose turn was next, also looked at Arthur, and Ruth saw her smile, as if the whole outing had not in a matter of seconds been ruined for her. She took his hand lightly, only touching her fingers to his palm, weightless and undemanding. “Bobby,” she said, turning away and planting her delicate shoe, with its high stalk of a heel on the gunwale, “catch me!”

She didn't mean it. She didn't jump into his arms, nothing so reckless as that, but she stepped into the boat too quickly, with too much of her mind focused on acting blithe, instead of on placing her feet. She reached for Bobby's shoulder just as he was putting his hands around her waist, but somehow he lost his balance, and they both tumbled to the floor. Imogene was laughing and groaning at once.

“Genie, are you all right?” Ruth jumped into the boat, and Arthur followed her.

“Yes, fine! No, I don't think so!” She yelped as she tried to put weight on her foot and crumpled onto the seat.

“And she's an actress, too, our little Eau de Grub,” Zita whispered to Kitty.

“I'm all right,” Imogene insisted, but Arthur said he'd better take her home, and she let herself be helped out of the boat and carried off the pier.

“He's come to visit every day!” Imogene crowed from the chaise in her mother's front room on Sunday. She kept to herself the words and kisses by which he'd made his intentions clear at last.

“So it was worth it?”

“You don't think I did this on purpose, do you?” She leaned forward to rub the swollen ankle she'd propped on a pile of pillows. “Although I was so mad at that Kitty, I wanted to push her in the drink.”

“I know, she's hideous. Let's not have anything more to do with those people.”

“But they're Arthur's friends. If Arthur and I …”

“It's so sweet of you, Ruth dear, to do this for Genie,” Mrs. Lindgren said, interrupting her daughter as she came into the room. She stood behind Imogene and smoothed the girl's hair behind her ears.

“Your hands smell!” Imogene protested but she let her head fall against her mother's arm.

“I told her a hundred times,” Mrs. Lindgren went on indulgently, “that she'd tip right over in those shoes, but she never listens.”

“What am I doing for you, Imogene?”

“Mother, you didn't give me a chance to ask her yet.” Imogene turned to Ruth. “The thing is … everyone's being unreasonable about my ankle. Dr. Karbler says I can't walk on it, at least for another day, and Mother's scared I'll fall on that hill if I use the crutches. I hate to let Mrs. Owens down. Would you fill in for me tomorrow?”

“But I'm an awful secretary.”

“It doesn't matter. She won't rush you, and mostly I do things like answer the telephone and sort the mail. Anyone can do it. It's simple—personal, bills, charity.” She mimed putting each in a separate pile. “Pay the bills, keep the accounts, and as far as the charity stuff goes, Mrs. Owens'll look at each piece and tell you what to do.”

“Aunt Amanda won't like me missing Brown's. Not after she's paid for it.”

“Do you have to tell her? It's only one day, Ruth.”

Ruth bit one of her thumbnails. “I suppose for one day it'd be all right. I might as well see if I can do this stuff I'm supposed to have learned. What'll I do until the mail comes?”

“Oh, you'll find something. I'm sure I left some letters from last week on the desk to be typed and sent out. Or you can get Arthur to give you a tour of the house.”

“I couldn't do that!”

“I'm only joking. Don't worry, someone'll tell you what to do.” Imogene's voice followed Ruth as she left. “Don't forget to wear something nice.”

In November the baby was so large in front of me, I had to lean back to keep my balance. That must be why I didn't see Joe until he was already on the grass, partway up the path to the house. I was standing at the bottom of the front steps, halfheartedly rolling the acorns off the walk with a broom. There was nowhere to hide, not even a decent shrub to cover me now that the leaves had dropped. My middle stood out starkly behind the narrow broomstick.

I ran. Heavy as I was, running, it seemed, was still what I did best. I ran around the back of the house and pushed Mathilda out the front.

Joe had come with a letter: Carl was on his way home.

In the yard, Mathilda danced. She swooped Ruth off her feet and danced. She twirled and danced. She danced with Joe; she danced
with Ruth—Carl was coming home. I sat on Ruth's little bed, trying to keep the panic down. Inside of me, the baby danced, just like Mattie. It kicked up its heels and danced and danced.

Before Joe left, he also told Mathilda a sad story. I could imagine him, holding his cap and bowing his head, pretending he wasn't thinking about what he'd seen inside of me. Poor Mary Louise had had her baby, a girl as still as ice.