Where the hell are you?” Fletcher bellows from the kitchen.
Boys of that age can be so hot-headed. A couple of years ago, Fletcher’s older brother Clayton lit out of town without much of a warning and Ruby misses him every day.
“My feet are itching to get out of Jericho, Ma,” Clay said.
That’s it.
“Where … will you go?” Ruby almost swallowed her tongue.
“Don’t know. Maybe Colorado. I’ll be back someday. You’ve got a houseful of boys to keep you company ’til then.”
Someday, that’s a word Ruby banks on.
Ruby doesn’t answer Fletcher right away, let him fume. She jabs a broom handle under the kitchen stoop to pry loose a large wasp’s nest wedged underneath the porch. A wasp buzzes and pelts Ruby’s forearm. She lobs the broom handle and plows through the kitchen door, holding her left wrist. Grabbing a damp towel, Ruby applies it to the nasty welt. Stupid, going after wasps like that. She swings around then to face Fletcher.
“What’s got into you? Going off like a firecracker about the smallest thing, like your pop, like Clay. It’s a wonder you haven’t been fired yet from that job of yours.”
Fletcher takes a mug from the sideboard and fills it with coffee. Ruby waits for it, the torrent of words.
“You say I’m no better than my pop. Well, you’re no better than your ma.”
“You leave my ma out of it.”
Ruby was a mother four times in as many years, and no rest in between. She rattles off the boys’ birthdates in her head to get her mind off Fletcher’s outburst:
Willard George, III: September 9, 1888
Clayton Roy: August 12, 1889
Fletcher James: June 8, 1890
Virgil Case: March 29, 1891
And then her caboose, born on one of the hottest days on record in April.
Samuel Finis: April 22, 1895
“Watch your mouth, young man.” Ruby balls her fist, relaxes it. “I won’t have anyone—least of all you—talking crap about my mother.”
“Everyone knows she was a whore.”
Ruby stiffens. “And how does ‘everyone’ know this?”
“Judd told me. Used to be one of his girls.”
“That’s horseshit, Fletcher. Judd would probably say Queen Victoria was ‘one of his girls’ if he thought it would bring a laugh. My mother never set foot in Jericho.”
“Maybe that’s how your pop knew her to begin with. One of his many whores.”
“I remind you who you’re talking to, young man.”
“No other mother …”
“Don’t you start on that again.”
“I know what I saw last night, and it isn’t right.”
“His name is …”
“I don’t care what his name is.”
“… The Preacher.”
“He ain’t no preacher, Ma. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What did I say about watching your language, Fletcher? And might I remind you my doings are no one else’s business.”
“Everyone knows what you’re up to, Ma. You killed our pa and got away with it. Probably sharing the sheets with whatever his name is back then.”
“How dare you!” This time, Ruby raises her fist, but stops herself. Her armpits are damp. “I didn’t know The Preacher until … well, it’s none of your goddamn business. It was years after your pa. And there’s nothing going on. Next time …”
“There won’t be a next time,” Fletcher says.
“I thought I raised you better.” Ruby unflexes her fist. “I killed your pa for good reason, and I’m not sorry about it. What he did to me, Fletch, I could take. But what he did to you and your brothers, that I couldn’t stomach. Even Virgil, with the palsy no less. And Sam, hardly talking. That was the last straw. Your pa beat the voice right out of him. Given enough time and enough drink—or any reason—your pa would’ve killed us all.”
“Still no reason to whore around for all the world to see.” Fletcher puts his head in his hands and shakes it back and forth.
Ruby puts her hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. He shrugs her off.
“I’m not whoring around at all, Fletcher. I was simply sharing a cup of coffee and nosing about the doings up at Silver Tip. There are mines going under all up and down the Catalinas. If that mine goes belly up, Jericho will dry up in five seconds flat. And that would be disastrous for us.”
“Why don’t you ask me about the mine? I’m up there every day, hauling enough water to break a camel’s back. Or ask the mine boss. You seem to know him pretty well. Paid you off, word is. Don’t know what you did for that.”
Ruby scowls. “Jimmy Bugg doesn’t know the word ‘honest’ from Adam. I prefer to ask someone else who works up there to get an honest answer.”
“There are plenty of others to ask.”
“Sleeping it off behind Judd’s, I reckon. And half of them—or more—don’t know The Queen’s English. Mr. Washington …”
“I don’t care a damn about Mr. Washington, or whatever his name is. Nobody uses their given names up there.” Fletcher pushes the chair out with a screech, wood on wood. “I’m not staying around to be witness to any more of it, Ma. I’m embarrassed to be your son. Won’t be long and you’ll see my backside headed out of this hellhole.”
Ruby sighs and backs away, her bottom up against the sideboard. Embarrassed? “Suit yourself, Fletcher. Can’t stop you, even if you’ve got a good paying job and friends and a roof over your head. Clay up and left, not much older than you, and for no good reason whatsoever.”
“He had his reasons.”
“‘My feet are itching to get out of Jericho,’ he said. That’s all he said to me …”
Where are you, Clay? Safe? Well-fed? Loved?
“… but we did get that letter once, though. From Colorado.”
“You won’t be getting any letters from me. Ma. Ever. I can’t get far enough away from Jericho. Or from you.”