Patterns of Swallows (32 page)

Ruth took the letter and tossed
it onto the desk of Mr. A.A Turnbull.

Then without a word, even to
Marcie, she gathered up the letter addressed to Mrs. R. Weaver, her
handbag, and a few other personal belongings she had in the office
and somehow managed to get out to her car.

Then the shaking took over. But
that was just a physical reaction. The only emotion she could feel
was relief that the ordeal was over for now.

*
* *

Speculation ran like wildfire
through the town after the change in Rahel Weaver's financial
situation began to be noticed. She had never lived extravagantly up
to that point, and she didn't live extravagantly after she came into
her bit of money, but in a town our size, people notice everything.

The money probably made the most
difference to Bo who had only himself to support after that time.
Perhaps that was the main change people noticed. He walked freer and
took a little more time off.

As a note of interest to the
reader, I should add that I know the details behind this incident not
because Ruth went back on her word of honour. She had told Gus
Turnbull that she would tell no one anything of what had transpired
between the two of them as long as he was alive, and she told no one.
After his death, years later, I believe she told three or four
people.

She told me only because she'd
let something slip, and I hounded her to know more details. Gus had
been dead for years at that point, so it couldn't have mattered to
him by then. Wherever he was at that time, no doubt he had better
things to worry about than his already less-than-spotless reputation.

It would have made a great story
– how "that Chavinski girl" went head to head with
the mighty Angus Andrew Turnbull. And won. But it wasn't my story
to tell. And Ruth didn't see it as a great story. So, out of
respect for Ruth, I've told no one. Until now.

Gus Turnbull had been as good as
his word and had lost no time in doing his best to ensure that no one
in Arrowhead would hire Ruth.

During the two months Ruth had
spent working at Turnbulls', Jim and Glo had closed up shop and moved
back to Texas to retire finally as they'd been threatening to do for
years.

"Just can't manage the
place without ya. Gonna hafta close 'er down," Glo told Ruth,
laughing a little when she broke the news to her. In spite of the
light comment and the laughter, Glo's eyes were shinier than normal
and there was a suspicious moisture at their corners.

Ruth was saddened by the news,
knowing how much she'd miss the couple who had played such a large
role in her life, but things had been going well at Turnbulls' then.
She didn't realize how in need of the Metzkes' friendship and support
she would soon be.

Jim and Glo threw themselves a
retirement/bon voyage party at the Morning Glory and invited all
their regulars and staff, past and present.

Even the normally
undemonstrative Philippa and Mrs. Handy hugged the Texan couple and
told them how much they'd be missed.

Ruth teared up when Glo hugged
her, Glo's heavy-handed mascara running freely.

"Can't tell ya how we'll
miss ya, Ruthie Darlin'. You'd better come down to Texas for a
visit."

"I'd love to sometime. But
you'll be back up here for visits, won't you?"

"We plan to come up once a
year. In summer. I won't miss the long, cold winters here. That's
one thing I won't miss," Glo said, sniffling and laughing at the
same time.

The next day, the Metzkes packed
their belongings into the moving van and drove off – headed in
the direction of Texas and grandkids.

One week later, the incident at
Turnbulls' took place, and Ruth found herself out of a job again.
This time with no Morning Glory and no Jim and Glo to turn to.

"Keep your chin up,"
Mom told her after a week of serious job-hunting had gone by.
"Whatever happened between you and Gus Turnbull, don't you fret.
In a lot of people's books, having trouble with Gus Turnbull would
only be a recommendation of your character. He likes to think he
runs this town, but there's too many that can't stand the sight of
'im."

That may have been so, but even
those who couldn't stand the sight of him held some degree of fear of
him.

Another week went by, and Ruth
had not had so much as a nibble on her line.

The Morning Glory was now
"Judy's Diner." An out-of-towner, Judy Brower, had
purchased the Morning Glory from Jim and Glo. Judy was a single,
enterprising businesswoman in her late thirties. She had big city
ideas and big city ways.

When the cafe reopened as
"Judy's," nothing was recognizable. The place had a slick,
modern feel. Everything was chrome and Formica. Glo's tables and
chairs had given way to booths with padded seats, and at the counter
were chrome and vinyl stools that twirled around and around to the
delight of the very youngest customers. The well-worn hardwood floor
was replaced by black and white tiles in a checker board pattern, and
Judy had installed a jukebox.

The menu no longer featured
Jim's hearty, home-cooked Texan fare but burgers and french fries
that came out of a freezer.

"Trust a city girl to fix
what ain't broke," the locals grumbled, but the place drew the
younger set. And the older customers continued to eat there out of
habit.

Judy Brower didn't know Ruth
personally, but she'd heard enough about her to peg her as a handful
and a potential troublemaker. She was pretty sure she didn't want
Ruth to work for her, and Ruth was pretty sure she didn't want to
work for Judy, either, though she would have.

But the personal feelings of
either or both of the women didn't matter in the end. When Ruth
stepped into Judy's Diner to ask about a job, all the openings had
already been filled. Just like everywhere else that Ruth tried.
"No, I'm afraid we're not looking to hire right now. Maybe try
back next month," was all Ruth heard on every side.

Two weeks of joblessness
stretched into three.

Ruth stayed busy. Nearly every
day, she pounded the pavement in search of gainful employment. She
kept the garden weedless. She cleaned. She baked. She even took up
sewing again. She'd forgotten how she used to enjoy it. But she
couldn't stop worry from creeping over her in unguarded moments.

Mom began saying things, like,
"I should really send Pat a letter. Just mention to her, find
out if her offer is still open," or, "I can't go on living
off your savings. It isn't right. It isn't fair to you."

"I don't know why I'm still
hanging on to those acres that I'm leasing," Ruth said one day,
going over accounts with her mother-in-law. "It would make a
lot more sense to sell off some land."

"But you love your farm.
Don't sell on my account," Mom said.

"Why would it be on your
account? And I wouldn't be selling the farm exactly. We'd keep the
farm house, of course. It would just be selling off the part we
don't use, anyways."

"But if you sell outright
you'll lose the income from the lease to Johnny."

"But we'd have a lump sum
to tide us over for awhile. Just to help out while I'm in between
jobs. Just so you stop worrying over that savings account."

"But ..."

"Please stop saying 'but.'
It makes sense for me to sell. There's no reason I shouldn't sell
it. Johnny keeps asking me to let him know if I'm ever interested in
selling. I don't know why I haven't taken him up on it yet."

"Because you love your
land, and you'll hate to part with it, that's why."

"But that's silly. I'm not
using it. Johnny farms it, anyways. I never plan to farm it myself.
Why shouldn't Johnny own it? And if it keeps you from making
comments about how I can't afford you and it's time you were moving
on, then that would be worth a whole lot more than the land is
worth."

"Well, if that's how you
feel ... " Mom couldn't help being pleased at Ruth's words. It
was so nice to be wanted. If only she could believe that she was
also needed.

But after the next storm hit,
there was no more talk of her leaving. There was no more feeling of
being unnecessary.

Like the last storm clouds, the
precursor to the next battering winds to be faced started off smaller
than a man's hand. In fact, this cloud was no bigger than a small
lump.

*
* *

Ruth climbed out of the bath and
pulled a towel around herself.

When she was dry, she reached
for her clothes and dropped the towel.

The bathroom mirror revealed
what Ruth considered her one true beauty – her body. For just
a moment, she paused to look solemnly at herself in her natural
state, revelling in the sight of the young body, straight and strong
but slim and supple. She'd never managed to convince herself that
she had any real beauty of face, but she couldn't deny the beauty of
form she possessed. She compared her slim strength to Lily's curves
that already showed signs of wanting to turn into Mrs. Turnbull's
rolls, and the comparison gave her a small measure of exultation.
Graham preferred a woman's shape to be on the slender side, she knew.

She took her eyes off the image
in the mirror and pulled on her brassiere. She reached around to
fasten it at the back and then adjusted it at the front. It rolled
up and took a little extra adjusting. As she absentmindedly tugged
the fabric into place, her fingers noticed an unfamiliar rising in
her smooth flesh. Then her mind noticed it.

"That's funny," she
said to herself.

Ruth wasn't long in the hospital
after the surgery. They needed the beds and so discharged her as
soon as possible.

On the morning she left
hospital, Dr. Lindstrom greeted her with a bedside manner that was a
shade too boisterous for Ruth's mood.

"Lucky you found the lump
when you did," he said. "The cancer was all contained in
the one breast, so there will be no need to remove the other one. I
don't anticipate any more problems. I'm confident we got it all this
time. Just keep an eye out for infection in the incision. Get right
back in here if there's any sign of infection. And make sure you
call my office as soon as you get back to Arrowhead or even before
you leave Camille if you like. We've got to get your regular
check-ups scheduled. Of course, you'll have to be monitored for some
years; well, the rest of your life, really. But I don't believe you
have any cause for worry. The surgery took care of it. There's no
need for further immediate treatment."

"Lucky," he'd called
her. Yet he'd also told her she was the youngest breast cancer
patient he'd ever had. Ruth felt anything but lucky. She felt
dazed. She felt stunned and beaten. And she felt sore.

*
* *

The next morning, she woke in a
drugged state when Mom crept into her room and placed a cool hand on
her forehead, checking for fever.

"Ruth, I'm sorry to wake
you. You were having such a good sleep. But two aspirins every four
hours for the first twenty-four after leaving hospital, the doctor
said. We've got to keep down the inflammation. How do you feel?
Are you in pain?"

Ruth mumbled something even she
couldn't understand and swallowed the pills dutifully, sipping water
while Mom supported her head up.

"I know, Dear. Just rest
now. I'll look after everything. Why don't you stay in bed? For
today, at least? It's been quite the ordeal. You don't need to get
up."

"I do," Ruth swung her
legs over the edge of the bed. "I do need to get up. I can't
just stay in bed." Her voice was cracked and croaky. She knew
it must be late. It must be about ten. She foggily remembered Mom
coming into the room at 6:00 to give her aspirin. She couldn't
remember taking aspirin in the middle of the night, but she must
have. Mom would have seen to it.

She had to get up, get moving.
She panicked at the thought of another day in bed.

"Shhh, shhh! Not right
now, anyway. Lie back, get your strength back, at least. Maybe
after breakfast you can get up. I have breakfast on a tray for you.
I'll go get it," Mom said.

When Ruth's legs crumpled under
her slight weight, landing her back on the bed, she knew better than
to argue. She had to submit meekly to Mom forcing her down gently,
picking up her legs and sliding them back under the covers.

The weakness must have been an
effect from the sleeping pills. She was certainly getting up after
breakfast, however.

When her mother-in-law left the
room, she faced the moment she'd been dreading with an irresistible,
fascinated dread. She had to look.

In the hospital, she'd been
unable to look. Really look. There had been people around her at
all times – nurses in and out, the odd visitor, a patient in
the bed next to hers. Even while alone in the bathroom, the incision
had been dressed. She didn't dare remove the dressing for a look,
and when the nurses changed the dressings, all she could do was catch
a glimpse here and there.