Sophie and the Rising Sun (20 page)

Is that where you’re going, Sophie? And if so—why?

And without another thought, Miss Ruth started off through the palmettos, following a trail that she had not walked since her childhood—remembering the deep sand beneath her feet and the lank, hanging moss in the trees, and, after a long walk, the cabin.

In the cabin, Mr. Oto still slept fitfully—unable, somehow, to fall into his usual deep and peaceful slumber. Something in the air, perhaps, he thought. Something very warm and almost oppressive—as if there were not a breath of air stirring. For the past hour or so, he had been concentrating on the chirping of tree frogs in the great live oaks, trying to gain some peace of mind. And rest.

But suddenly and without warning, the tree frogs fell utterly silent—all at once. A silence, in and of itself, that was almost deafening. And something else.

Someone was coming!

Sophie?

No, he thought at the last moment. Not Sophie. How he knew was a mystery to him, but so strong was his conviction that he slipped out of bed just as silently as a shadow, and across the room to lift the very edge of the torn blanket over the window.

Miss Ruth!

With her wizened and squinting face above the palmettos at the edge of the trees. And the bright sunlight flashing on her glasses. Lifting her hand and shading her eyes. Looking at the cabin.

Before Mr. Oto even had time to think, he stepped back across the room and rolled right under the cot, hardly daring to breathe and lying just as still as death, with his cheek against the rough planks of the cabin floor.

An oblique rectangle of sunlight across the floor when the torn blanket was pulled back, and he could see her feet. He hardly dared to breathe while the feet came forward and then turned slowly around in the center of the small room. And moved toward the box that was along the wall.

The painting!

The feet staying in that solitary place for a very long time, with the toes pointed at where the painting was propped up against the wall. His painting of Sophie as the Crane-Wife. And knowing that Miss Ruth was looking at it—with disdain, probably—violated everything he held dear.

Sophie—
my dear Sophie!—
of course, whose lovely image was upon the paper, blessedly unaware of the ridicule to which it would certainly be subject in Miss Ruth’s mind. And the great crane -that symbol of love and happiness!

And his father and the beauty of his gentle spirit. And the tale of magic and good fortune and fidelity that he had taken such pleasure in telling!

Lying in the dim light under the cot, Mr. Oto felt unfamiliar tears sliding down the side of his nose and dripping onto the floor.

A
nd has it come to this? Hiding like an animal in a dark cave, while that despicable woman looks at everything I hold dear?

After what seemed like an eternity to Mr. Oto, the feet moved—toes pointing toward each wall and then moving, reluctantly it seemed, to the door and out of the cabin.

Only took me a minute to realize who it was coming to see me, because of hearing Ruth’s little nervous tap-tapping steps coming down the long hallway toward my room.

Oh, Lord!

When Ruth came into my room, she had such a face on her—like I’d never seen before, and she plopped herself down in a chair without so much as a how-do-you-do and just sat there, staring at me.

“What’s going on here?” she finally said, as if that made perfect sense.

“What do you mean?” I said, and I didn’t try to hide the weariness in my voice, because I’d finally been able to relax, and I certainly didn’t feel like playing any games with Ruth. Really I wanted just to tell her to take her old sourpuss face right on out of there and leave me alone. But of course, I didn’t say anything like that.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” she shot back at me, and that really made me angry. How dare she come bursting into my room and acting so ugly—and with me in my sickbed?

“Listen, Ruth,” I began, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “Whatever it is, just say it right out and let’s dispense with all this cat-and-mouse conversation.”

“Why, I
never...”
she sputtered, and then she went right into her “Why, I’m just trying to help” defense, which she always did if someone called her hand. “I’m just a good Christian woman who thinks it’s her duty to let you know.” That’s what she always said.

“Let me know what?” I asked, but something in the pit of my stomach was beginning to feel more than just a little alarmed, so I reached over to my bedside table for my fingernail file and started filing away at my nails, trying to look a little bored—or at the very least, completely unconcerned.

“That someone’s using your papa’s old fishing cabin, down by the river.”

Well, there it was, then—the worst thing that could happen. But I still didn’t know exactly what she had seen. Or who. Mr. Oto himself? Did she know already exactly who was using that old cabin?

“My papa’s cabin?” I asked, stalling for time until I could figure out just how much she knew.

“
Your
papa’s cabin. There’s a kerosene lamp there and sheets on the cot. And the strangest picture—painting I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you see who’s there?” It was the question I had to ask, but inside, I could feel my heart cowering at what her answer might be.

“No.” Has there ever been so sweet a word? “But it certainly has something to do with Sophie. I know that much.”

“And just how do you know that?” I asked.

“Because the picture is of her. And some big egret or other. And besides, I’ve watched her going out of her house and down the street for two nights in a row. So this morning, I walked down that way... far on down the road, as you well know. And I found a little path through the palmettos. I thought I remembered your papa’s cabin being down that way somewhere. And I followed that path right to it. It’s a pretty well-used path, too.”

I was thinking hard... thinking fast. Because everything hinged on whether or not I could throw Ruth off the track until we could make some other arrangements for hiding Mr. Oto.
Damn!

“Sophie can go there if she wants to,” I replied.

“So you knew about that, then!” I could sense an
Aha!
in her tone.

“I knew about it. Of course,” I said.

“Well, I’ll bet you didn’t know that she’s meeting somebody down there, did you?” Ruth sounded completely happy to drop that tidbit of gossip on me.

“That’s ridiculous,” I answered, but again in what I hoped sounded like a completely unconcerned tone of voice. “Sophie can use my papa’s cabin anytime she wants to,” I said.

“But what’s she doing there?” Ruth wasn’t going to let it alone. If I ever doubted that, I doubted it no longer.

“Painting, that’s what,” I said, warming to the idea of that explanation. For it certainly tied in quite nicely with what Ruth said about seeing a picture down there.

“Why would she need sheets on the bed for that?” Ruth shot back at me. And she wasn’t through, yet. “You know, of course, that I never did believe that story you told about that foreign man of yours. I just wonder... are you hiding him out down there?”

And that’s the precise moment when I realized that I was engaged in a very deadly exchange with her. Whatever faults Ruth may have had, and there were certainly plenty of them—just like with all of us—she wasn’t stupid. So right then and there, I made up my mind what I had to do, even though I certainly didn’t like doing it. Because in spite of Ruth’s ugly gossip and the way it had already hurt Sophie, I still hated to do the same thing to her.

“Ruth, we’ve known each other for a long time, but I’m telling you to stop this gossiping about Sophie. And about some cock-and-bull story you’ve dreamed up about Mr. Oto. I want you to leave it alone.”

“Leave what alone?” she asked, somewhat innocently. See? I told you she was plenty sharp.

“Whatever it is your dirty little mind is imagining,” I said, and watched her face as those cruel words sank in. And I didn’t enjoy it one little bit. Because Ruth and I were both raised to be as mannerly as possible—just like most Southern women, especially in little towns like this one—and this kind of open confrontation wasn’t something either one of us was used to. Not really.

“Why, Anne!” She drew back in dismay, and I had to remind myself that this was her usual tack, whenever she suspected she was close to any kind of direct unpleasantness. I guess her philosophy was that it was all right to gossip like mad about someone, as long as you didn’t hurt their feelings where you could see them suffering.

“I’m not through, Ruth,” I said, and I lowered my voice a bit, just in case Big Sally was snooping around in the hallway outside my room. “You will stop this gossiping and stop it right now. Sophie is a fine, honorable lady. And Mr. Oto is gone. So you will not go to my papa’s cabin again. But Sophie may go there anytime she pleases. Do you understand me?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t understand one little bit. What on earth has gotten into you, Anne?”

But I ignored her question. Because I’d gone too far by then to back down. Why, I’d looked her right in the face and flat-out, stomp-down lied. Not a light kind of lie, like Mr. Oto going to Canada. Because all I had to do, basically, was tell a few people and they spread it around for me. But this was a bald-faced, go-to-hell lie.

And you know, even all these years later, if I had it to do over again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

“Just you hear what I’m saying,” I went on. Like I couldn’t stop being mean, once I’d gotten started with it. “You leave Sophie alone. Or so help me, I’ll... start spreading some gossip of my own.”

“About what?” she asked smugly, and there it was again, that sanctimony. My own papa used to say: “God save me from the churchgoers who hang up their religion with their Sunday pants!” Mostly, he said that whenever Mama started in on him about his not going to church. “Talk better to God and listen better, too, right down there by the river,” he used to say. And that’s where he always spent his Sunday mornings. And a kinder, gentler, more honest and godly man never lived on this earth.