Mother and Eleanor weren’t nervous. They’d swapped places all the time when they were little, so they weren’t worried. “Like riding a bike,” Eleanor said. “You never forget.”
They’d go to the medical clinic as each other. Eleanor was going to dress like Mother, and go back to the clinic where I had gotten my school shots. She would tell them that she had some indigestion or something. She would also tell them all about her cancer surgery and treatments in another state. Since they were a walk-in clinic they wouldn’t insist on getting all the records—after all, she just had indigestion. But she would make them write it down. Eleanor wanted to establish an in-state medical record of her cancer, just in case she went to prison and somebody said, “Hey wait, nobody said you have cancer!”
When I saw them in each other’s clothes for the first time, I didn’t think they’d fool anybody. Sure, Mother looked like a nun in Eleanor’s habit, with just her little face stuck out. Sure, Eleanor wore Mother’s dress and her hair had grown back, much like Mother’s chopped-off hair. But any fool would see the difference.
Wouldn’t they?
Apparently not.
* * *
They wouldn’t let me go into the clinic with them; they thought I would blow it. Now that’s insulting. If there’s one thing I’m very good at, it is not blowing my cover.
But I agreed and spent the afternoon with Joe Brewer. We sat by a fountain in the park.
“Tell me again,” Joe Brewer asked, “about the IQ Zoo.”
I launched off. “It was this bully boy, stupid stupid bully, you should have seen him in his stupid circus outfit and a cigarette. Only stupid people smoke cigarettes.”
Joe interrupted me. “Ruby Clyde, do you realize how often you use the word stupid?”
“So,” I said. “It’s a strong word. It feels good when I say it.”
“But it feels bad when others hear it. And you are better than that.”
“What’s a better word?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure that a girl who loves vocabulary words as much as you do will figure it out. Now, tell me the story without using the word stupid, not even once.”
I did. It wasn’t easy but I did not say the word out loud, but I thought about it a few times.
“Oh, girl. That story is unbelievable. Thank God you are safe.” Joe laughed and rubbed his hands over both eyes. “Did the owner see you?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “The—whatever you want to call him—circus teenager meanie kid picked me up and threw me out on the sidewalk.”
We sat quietly for a moment before he said, “We need to talk about your presence at the trial.”
“I have to be there,” I said. “We even bought a dress.”
“I don’t want anybody recognizing you in court. It might be a distraction.”
“I still don’t know why you won’t call me as a witness your own self. I could tell them everything.”
“It’s complicated, Ruby Clyde. You’re a child. You’d say anything for your mother.”
“Not so, I wouldn’t lie,” I said. But I would lie. It was a lie that I wouldn’t lie. But I wouldn’t have to lie—it was all the Catfish.
“I can’t put you on the stand, Ruby Clyde. And if the prosecutor knows about you, she wouldn’t either. Child witnesses are too unpredictable and sympathetic.”
“At least let me be in the courtroom, please,” I said. “Nobody has ever seen me in a dress and hair bow, that’s for sure.”
“We’ll see,” he said. “But you will have to trust me.”
I fell silent. He didn’t press.
Finally I said, “I never trusted my mean grandmother, never. I learned a lot from her. My mother? Well, trust is not the word. I love her, but … I don’t not trust her. And I know she loves me.”
“I’m glad you know that.” Joe Brewer nodded.
I sighed. “I’ve always found pieces of people to love. I guess trust is the same way, you have to do it in pieces.”
“Trust in pieces. Not bad, Ruby Clyde. Trust in pieces.”
Speaking of trust, I had not forgotten my bargain with God. Aunt Eleanor had lived and I needed to do something important for her.
I reached in the plastic bag I’d brought and scattered bread crumbs, and in just a few seconds we were surrounded by a swarm of pigeons pecking, bobbing, and flapping.
“Joe Brewer,” I said. “I need your help.”
“Anything,” he said.
“There’s one thing I can’t do for myself.”
“There’s a whole lot of things you can’t do for yourself, Ruby Clyde.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I waved him off. “I’m serious. You know I told you about Eleanor’s son, the one she gave up for adoption.”
He got respectful and said, “Yes, of course.”
The mist from the fountain blew across my arm, making the hairs stand up.
“Can you find her son?” I tossed another handful of crumbs into the middle of the flock, and they darted madly, stupidly, seeking bread.
“I don’t know. Breaking adoption records is difficult.” Joe squinted at the gray birds scratching in the dirt, at their beautifully shaped heads and deep black pearls for eyes.
I told him everything Eleanor had told me, when and where she had her son. “So why can’t you just call them? It will be easy.”
“Nothing’s easy,” Joe Brewer said. “You should know that by now. But I can try. Especially since Sister Eleanor is … not well.”
I wondered if he had almost said dying. Eleanor had insisted that not all people with cancer die, but she was certainly training us to get along without her.
“You don’t sound very … hopeful.” I hesitated because I needed him to have hope about everything.
“Oh, girl, I live on hope. All defense lawyers do.” He reached into the bag and threw a handful of bread bits to one side of the pigeons. The shiny gray birds wheeled and bobbed as one, and sucked up the crumbs like a vacuum cleaner.