“In you go now.” Divina touches Ruby’s shoulder as she enters the bathhouse. The brazen night sky replaces what would be a ceiling, if the bathhouse had one. Ruby undresses and lowers herself into the steaming tub, water scalding her ankles and her backside. When she can just barely stand the heat, she stretches out the full length of the tub and slowly acclimates to the water. Ruby sinks her head under water. Maybe she’ll never come up. That would solve it.
Ruby can’t count the number of baths she’s had in the same tub. Divina’s house and Big Burl’s house have sat side by side since before Ruby came into the world. The lines always blurred as to which house Ruby belonged. She belonged to both of them equally.
All the traveling, setting up and tearing down, dust and freighters and cheaters took it out of Big Burl. As much as he loved center stage, Big Burl took refuge in his squat adobe at the far end of Jericho. Winters, he spent ensconced in twelve-inch walls with a fire blazing, Divina next door and an Apache woman in his bed. And Ruby never far away. Everything a man could need was only minutes away down the long, snaky hill: bank, tavern, livery, general store. Big Burl didn’t have much use for the church, although he sent Ruby there with Divina on Sundays.
As a child, Ruby spent long hours at her own house, playing with the ponies out back. But most days she shuttled between the two houses. Divina had trunks and trunks of fabric and trims that she fashioned into magical costumes for Ruby—pirate and cowgirl and snake charmer. Ruby would parade back and forth like an actress, making up stories about stowaways and wranglers and circus performers and corralling stray cats into her routines.
Evenings, Big Burl would sit on Divina’s wide porch drinking to the sunset, which had a habit of outperforming itself every night. All the while, Big Burl’s Apache woman would be outside cooking or doing beadwork or smoking. You’d think it might be confusing for Ruby, Big Burl having two women in Jericho, one for one thing and another for the rest. But it didn’t bother Ruby one bit. She had two mothers, that’s just the way it was. When she scraped her knee, she went to Divina. When she was hungry, she went to Onawa.
Onawa was a grand storyteller, spinning tales about everything under the sun: creation, animals, plants, people. Ruby would sit, dirty and happy, at Onawa’s feet, listening, while Onawa stirred the contents of a huge pot over an open fire.
Before time, one story began, there was nothing—no earth, no sky, no sun, no moon, only darkness everywhere.
Onawa raised her arms above her shoulders and cupped her hands, moving them back and forth.
Out of darkness came sliver of light.
Ruby’s spine tingled.
On sliver sat Great Creator.
Ruby didn’t know what a Great Creator was, but she pictured him bigger than her pop.
As Great Creator looked into darkness—Onawa’s eyes opened wide as tin cans then—he cast his hands…
Onawa’s arms moved rhythmically side to side.
… and to the east, he created yellow streaks of dawn.
Ruby’s eyes were wide now, too, picturing a sky turned yellow from black.
To the west, Great Creator painted sky with wild strips of color.
Ruby imagined colors whirling in the sky, burned onto the waning day like sunset.
Creator rubbed his hands together then—Onawa rubbed her palms together frantically, transported somewhere far, far from Jericho.
Ruby didn’t have the heart to tell Onawa that the pot was boiling over onto the ground. Ruby scooted away from the scalding liquid without taking her eyes off the older woman. What would happen next? If she rubbed her hands together, would something grand happen? Ruby mimicked Onawa and rubbed her dirty hands together. Her palms became warm.
… and behold! On shining cloud sat a little girl—here, Onawa pointed at Ruby—who would become ruler over all the Earth.
Onawa laughed and clucked her tongue. No matter how many times Ruby tried to cluck her tongue like Onawa, she never could. Her head was full of clouds and colors and her hands were raw. Ruler of all the earth! Imagine!
Later, nights, Ruby would sit on Divina’s generous lap and fall asleep there. How she got to her own bed in her own house was always a mystery, like another of Divina’s limitless tricks.
The year they buried Big Burl, Ruby was in the same tub, grieving. From underwater, Ruby heard sharp words. She popped up and shook her head to get water out of her ears.
“He’s dead, I tell you. Heart gave out.”
Unintelligible words, a rise and fall of voices, and then a loud wail.
“No, it’s not your house! Don’t you be coming back, do you hear me?”
More conversation, another wail. Then a loud slam of a door.
Ruby soaked until the water turned tepid and then cool. She watched constellations blink and wink overhead as she drifted into a dark, dreamless sleep.
A loud knock on the bathhouse door startled her.
Ruby dragged herself from the tub and toweled off. She unlatched the bathhouse door and let Divina shoulder her weight as they went inside. Divina poured Ruby a liberal shot of whiskey and a double for herself. They drank in silence, their comfortable space, Ruby nodding when Divina offered her a second shot.
“Onawa?” Ruby asked, finally. “Pop’s lady friend? The one who told stories?”
Divina bristled. “She won’t be coming back.”
“So you got what you wanted, in the end. The tail end of Onawa heading out of Jericho for good.”
“I never got what I really wanted, Pip.”
TONIGHT, DIVINA PULLS THE COVERLET over Ruby and sits on the edge of the divan. She strokes Ruby’s hair. “You’re not the only one walking around with a heart in splinters. I’m as broken up as you about Baby Willie. But there will be others.”
“Don’t talk of babies.”
A coyote howls in the distance. Ruby’s spine bristles. Did she bury her son just this afternoon? In a maw of earth? Did they dig the hole deep enough? Is the coyote … no, no, no, Ruby moans again.
Ruby melts into Divina’s arms.
“I’ve had my share of black eyes, too, Pip, even if you can’t see them. Your pop was the master of that. Never lifted a hand to me, mind you, but put more black eyes on my heart than any man living. Those are the kind that never heal.”
RUBY DRAGS HERSELF TO THE cemetery every morning to keep Baby Willie company. A week after she lowered him into the earth—not much past dawn, before the sun has shown up for the day—Ruby arrives at the cemetery to find the grave disturbed. Paw marks pierce the dirt around the gravesite, as if a thief has been here and left in a rush, leaving the ground trampled and damp. Ruby cries out and sinks to her knees. She reaches her hands into the earth, her shoulders at ground level. She screams into the void, her hands catching on the edge of the splintered coffin.
Ruby stays there all day, dry heaving into her balled fist. At dusk, she staggers into town, ignoring catcalls from drunks and drifters. Disappears into the back of Judd’s and emerges with her eyes glazed. Everyone in Jericho, down to the newspaperman (who’d rather lose an eyetooth than let a story get by), as well as the sheriff—the latest preacher even—gives Ruby a wide berth.
Lost a baby, someone whispers. Mighty young, isn’t she? Said she has a husband, but that’s probably all talk, usually is. She’s Big Burl’s girl, right? That Girl Wonder? Think so. She’s gone mad, I tell you. Too bad her pa up and died on her. Girl like that needs her pa. Reckon he didn’t have two nickels to leave her, though. I remember her from school, used to be the cutest thing in Jericho. Wouldn’t recognize her now, such a shame. Think she’s one of Judd’s girls? She’s there most afternoons. Maybe, hard to say. Probably. How else could she support herself? Heard her mother was a good time girl, wouldn’t be surprised if she’s one now. Titter, twitter, talk, talk, talk.
Ruby ignores it. Her days have no reason except for the bottle. Her mind swims with obtuse thoughts, like she’s dreaming awake. Lies, she tells herself, that’s the only thing that gets a body through. Can’t face the truth. Or put stock in faith. What has faith ever done except give a body false hope? Redemption? What a load of hogwash. All a body can do is tell stories over and over until the ending comes out better. It’s the only way to keep on getting up the next morning, or else it isn’t worth it, getting up at all.
And so months turn to dust turn to void. Ruby lives in a constant haze as Divina nurses her with liquor and love. Every day, Ruby seeks out Old Judd at the tavern. Her pop said you can always trust a barman, even more than a priest. Ruby doesn’t ask where he gets his supply of laudanum because it doesn’t matter. No price is too high because the law is changing. Soon you won’t be able to get laudanum at all without a prescription. Damn doctors. And then what will they ask for it? A king’s ransom?
Somehow, Ruby will find a way to keep her habit. No one can take that away from her. It’s her life, damn it. She has enough laudanum for this month stashed in the bureau drawer next to her narrow bed in Divina’s spare room. She sleeps off nights and days, a spoonful of laudanum only three blessed steps away. She’s not ready to go back to Big Burl’s house next door. Not yet.
So Ruby doesn’t rejoin Willie for the rest of that season, and would never have considered the traveling life again for a thousand dollars or a thousand rounds of applause if Willie hadn’t shown up one day in Jericho, hat in hand and more winsome than ever, promising to God and all creation to make a new start.