Chapter Thirteen

RUTHENA, AGE 15

“Come on, Ruthie, just one more.”

“Shh!” Ruthena placed a finger over Luther’s lips.

“No, I won’t be quiet until you give me one, right here.”

“Shh, Luther Atkins! I ain’t gon’ give you nuthin’ if you don’t hush up. You gon’ get us caught,” Ruthena whispered furiously.

“Ain’t nobody here but—”

Ruthena clamped a hand over Luther’s mouth and peeked out from behind the pew of Calvary AME Zion Church. She cast a careful eye over the pulpit, the choir loft, and up and down the right and left sides of the church. Then she looked behind them at the vestibule. Satisfied that they were safe for the moment, Ruthena decided to give Luther a little heaven on earth. But I don’t think this is what the pastor meant by fellowship, she thought as she planted a soft—and quick—smooch on his waiting lips, both eyes open wide.

“Come on, Ruthena.”

She lowered her lashes and threw a long, thick plait over her right shoulder. “Oh, hush up, Luther. You know I’m a good Christian girl, and I ain’t got no business meetin’ you here like this every week.” Thursdays were Ruthena’s days to polish the pews, the candleholders, and the molding in the balcony. “Now you just better be satisfied with this. I ain’t lettin’ you put yo’ mouth or yo’ hands nowhere else.” She knew that Luther hoped to move things right along to the back of his daddy’s Super Sport.

He took Ruthena’s hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. “Oh, girl, you know I love you. I just want to kiss you a little bit. I miss you.”

“You miss me? You just saw me.”

“I know, I know,” Luther said hastily. “But you so pretty and you smell so good, I just cain’t thank of nuthin’ else but you.” He took his free hand and stroked her cheek.

Warmed, Ruthena ignored the roughness of his calloused palm. “Well . . .”

“Come on, Ruthie baby. Just one more . . .” He leaned in. His pink tongue peeked out just a bit.

“Well . . . okay. But just one.” Ruthena closed her eyes and her mouth and leaned in.

“Ru-the-na Ag-new!”

Ruthena leaped to her feet.

Sister Robertson stood in the doorway leading into Calvary’s narthex, her left hand cradling tiny glass Communion cups.

“S-S-Sister Robertson, I—”

The church mother stalked over to the two and yanked Luther to his feet. “Boy. I. Bet. You. Betta. Git. Yo’self. Outta. Here. Right. Nigh.”

“Miss—”

But Sister Robertson brooked no dillydallying. “I. Said. Git!” She used her free hand to drag Luther to the double doors. She pushed him so hard his forward motion propelled him through the doors, where he stumbled, barely catching himself before he landed on his face on the concrete steps. “I’ll see yo’ mama later,” Ethel Robertson warned before bringing the doors to and turning to the cowering Ruthena, who had followed them.

“Sister Robertson, I—”

“I ’spected mo’ of you, Miss Agnew,” Sister Robertson said stiffly. “Comin’ to this church every day. I thought you loved the Lord.”

“I do—”

“But you love Luther Atkins, too. Is that it?” Sister Robertson shook her head. “Take these.”

Ruthena wordlessly took the cups.

“Now, clean ’em up and finish preparin’ the Lord’s Supper. I got some thangs to see to.”

As Ruthena watched Ethel Robertson march from the church, she knew exactly what “thangs” the outraged woman was talking about. Heart heavy, yet obedient, she slowly walked up the aisle and to the kitchen in the back of the church.

Forty-five minutes later, Ruthena dried the last of the Communion cups. She was reaching for the box of wafers in the cabinet by the gas stove when a gravelly voice stopped her cold.

“I hear this church been givin’ out mo’ than free food to the po’.”

Ruthena turned. She’d rather face the devil himself than her mama right now, but there she stood in the doorway, her eyes burning.

“Runnin’ up to this place ever’ day, like the Lord been callin’ yo’ name personal. Seems like somebody else been callin’ yo’ name, too.”

Ruthena knew to respect her elders, so she clamped shut her trembling lips and counted the speckles in the tile floor.

“I ain’t said much to yo’ servin’ the Lord, but when you start to servin’ out other stuff—”

“No, Mama—”

“I ain’t wont to hear it . . . Miss Holy. You better start thankin’ with somethin’ other than those two thangs there—” Beatrice pointed to Ruthena’s lips—“or there,” she finished, indicating fifteen-year-old Ruthena’s chest. “’Cause if you don’t, you gon’ end up puttin’ somethin’ else to work ’fo’ you ready. Ain’t we got it hard enough? You tryin’ to add to it?”

“No, Mama.” Ruthena started to cry—from fear, from regret, but mostly from fear.

“Dry it up, girl. Dry it up. Now, it’s hard enough for me to walk round Sprang Hope wit’ ever’body shakin’ they heads, talkin’ ’bout po’ Beatrice without you havin’ to give ’em somethin’ else to wag they tongues ’bout. I don’t need nobody else feelin’ sorry fo’ me. And I sho as h—”

“Mama!” Ruthena gasped, looking upward, afraid that God might send a lightning bolt that would cook her mama to the bone—praying that God would send a lightning bolt that would cook her mama to . . . the . . . bone.

Beatrice pursed her lips and rolled her eyes at her daughter. “Oh, so yo’ Lord gon’ turn His eyes away from all that sinnin’ you doin’, but strike me down ’cause I said—”

Ruthena shushed her mama as she danced from one foot to the next.

Beatrice stomped to Ruthena. She wrapped a worn hand around one of the teen’s plaits and gave it a hard yank. “You bet’ not give nobody else a reason to come by my house carryin’ tales or bad news. I’ve had enough of both in my lifetime. You hear me?”

Eyes watering, Ruthena nodded as much as her mama’s tight grip on her hair would allow.

“The next time Sister So-and-So come a-callin’, she better be carryin’ a plate full of food or a collection plate wit’ some money in it. But if all she carryin’ is gossip . . .”

Ruthena used the pause to imagine the punishment.

“At yo’ age I had a husband and a baby. Is that the kind of life you wont? You best spend yo’ time with the one true God than with that ol’ Luther Atkins. At least God promised you a mansion in the sky. All that boy can give you is a shack smaller’n the one you live in now. Now, you best mind, girl.”

Beatrice dropped her daughter’s plait. Ruthena’s shaky legs finally gave way and she sank to the floor. And she stayed down, watching her mother stalk from the kitchen.

——————

“Sister Underwood? Sister Underwood!”

Sister Underwood—Ruthena—looked up from the twenty-pound turkey she was cleaning. “I’m in here!” She reached into the cavity of the huge bird and extracted the bag of giblets, neck, and other innards.

Two sets of heavy footsteps clop-clopped their way down the long hallway leading to the fellowship hall of Palmer Tabernacle Church of the Living Waters. The door swung open and a round face beamed through the crack. “Hey, you! I see you’ve already gotten started.”

The door swung open wide, revealing Jacqueline and Caryn Allen, sisters—and Sisters—who served with Ruthena on the stewardess board of the church. Caryn pushed past her older, shorter sister into the kitchen. “We came to finish cooking the greens and the yeast rolls and—mmmm-mmmm! What smells so good?”

Ruthena leaned over for kisses from the two, all the while keeping her hands tucked inside the turkey. “I popped over here early to get the ham on—that’s what you smell cooking in the oven—and I’m just getting Mr. Turkey here ready for the deep fryer. Once we prep the vegetables and set up the desserts, everything’ll be all set for Pastor’s appreciation banquet.”

Jacqueline shook her head. “I tell you, you’re like a steamroller. You do so much good for the church. You got your hands in everything—the Sunday school, the stewardess board, pastor’s aid, now this turkey. When do you have time for Matthew?”

Caryn laughed. She reached for her sister’s grocery bags and set them on the counter beside hers.

“When indeed?”

The women jumped and turned toward the doorway.

There stood Ruthena’s husband, his serious brown eyes focused on his wife. Her niece peeked around him and waved.

“Matthew! Evelyn!” Ruthena’s bottom jaw dropped open as the water flowed over her hands into the cavity of the bird.

“I hope that’s a look of happy surprise.” Evelyn walked to her aunt and wrapped an arm around her. She turned off the faucet as she planted a kiss on her left cheek.

At her niece’s unusually effusive greeting, Ruthena’s narrow back went as stiff as the thermometer she’d planned to stick into the turkey, her eyes on Matthew just as sharp. Something about Evelyn had always made her uncomfortable; her straightforward, no-nonsense manner and the way the girl’s eyes unwaveringly met hers raised her hackles. Her niece tended to ask pointed questions about matters of faith rather than accepting Ruthena’s biblical references as canon. Evelyn didn’t even bother to suffer quietly as she suspected most of her family did, and Ruthena didn’t like it. Maybe she gets more than her name from Mama, she thought, her lips pursed.

As if reading her mind, Jacqueline braced a hand on each of her ample hips and declared, “This child must be an Agnew. She looks just like your people!”

Ruthena’s set jawbone relaxed as she nodded in the direction of her church sisters. “Doesn’t she? Sister Jackie and Sister Caryn, meet Evelyn, my sister Lis’s baby girl.” She watched as the two women enveloped Evelyn in tight hugs, one after another. Ruthena’s hazel eyes widened as the younger woman’s striped shirt stretched over her rounded midsection.

“Look at you, Evelyn. Lis told me she was about to be a grandmother . . . again. I guess congratulations are in order,” she choked out over the sudden lump in her throat. “Matthew, what brings y’all here? I thought I was meeting you at home later.” She forced the corners of her lips to lift and prayed her spirits would follow suit.

“Evelyn and her friend . . . ?” Matthew’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at the ceiling as if he’d find the name hovering over his head.

Evelyn chuckled and whispered, “Maxine.”

He snapped his cocoa-colored fingers. “That’s right. Maxine. They stopped by the house looking for you, and then she asked if I could lead them over here. You know I’ll take any excuse to squeeze in some time with my busy wife.” His look included everyone else in the room. “I think she believes God can’t find her unless she’s in His house.” Matthew’s smile was tight enough to bounce a quarter off it.

“Well, I would never refuse your help preparing for the church banquet. You know that,” Ruthena murmured through clenched teeth. “So, Evelyn, you mentioned Maxine. Mrs. Tagle’s granddaughter, right?” Ruby Tagle was Beatrice’s longtime friend whose fried chicken and sweet potato casserole virtually put her children through college. “She’s not coming in to say hello?”

Evelyn smoothed her shirt over her belly as her aunt wrestled with the turkey. “She’s in the car, catching up on e-mail. We came to Charlotte to check out IKEA.”

“Y’all drove all this way to shop? I know y’all have stores down your way,” Caryn piped up, her head buried in the refrigerator.

“Shh, Sister! Mind your own business. Come on, we’ll let these folks talk in private. Ruthena, we’ll get the tablecloths and the punch bowls from the supply room. See if there’s anything else we need. Nice to see y’all.” Jacqueline shooed Caryn from the kitchen.

“Don’t forget we’re on a schedule!” Ruthena called out as the door swung back and forth behind them.

“Running for Jesus,” Matthew murmured. He crossed one ankle over the other and leaned against the counter.

Evelyn peered at her uncle and seemed about to ask him a question. Then, with a soft “Uh-hmmm,” she returned her attention to Ruthena. “Actually, I . . . um . . . I have another reason for coming to Charlotte. I brought you something. That’s really why I asked Uncle Matthew to come along. Do you have a minute?”

“So you lied?” Ruthena washed and dried her hands to hide her impatience as she reviewed her mental checklist. Make the broccoli casserole. Take out the ham. Heat up the oil. Go over the banquet program with Caryn and Jackie. Change clothes before our meeting. She flicked a surreptitious glance at Matthew.

He had chosen that moment to roll his eyes heavenward. Wide nostrils flaring, he sighed through lips pursed beneath his dark mustache. “I don’t think Evelyn lied to me, Ruthie. She probably had a good reason—”

“Jacob also felt he had a good reason for putting animal skin on his arm—”

“Wasn’t Isaac subverting God’s will by blessing Esau, when the Lord told them the older would serve—?”

“Are you saying God wanted Jacob to use trickery—?”

Abruptly Evelyn stepped in the middle of their Bible-strewn battlefield and waved a thick white envelope. “Aunt Ruthena, I have something for you. From Granny B.”

Ruthena’s eyes followed its movement. She huffed and went still. “Okay, I’ll take a look at it tonight, after the banquet.” She reached for the nine-by-twelve envelope.

But Evelyn gently set it in Matthew’s hands as if it were an infant. “Uh-uh. She asked me to give this to both of you. And it’s important.”

“She asked you. Always Mama’s little accomplice. Since when does Mama need somebody to do her dirty work?” Ruthena immediately regretted her choice of words, but she refused to restate her question. She knew Beatrice might be intractable, but no one would label her words or actions “dirty work.”

Her mama’s “mini me” seemed to agree. Evelyn’s eyes flashed at Ruthena.

Matthew spoke up before his niece could speak out. “So cooking a turkey for your overstuffed pastor is God’s work? That’s church work, Ruthena, not necessarily one and the same. We have our own laundry to air out in an hour—remember our appointment with the marriage counselor?”

Ruthena threw down her towel. She stalked over to the swinging doors and peeped through their diamond-shaped panes. After seeing no sign of the two stewardesses, she pounced on Matthew and Evelyn still standing by the turkey, its legs spread-eagled in the sink. “Matthew,” she hissed, “this is not the time, the place, or the company to discuss our personal business. Just because Evelyn shows up out the blue with some mystery envelope from Mama doesn’t mean I have to drop everything. When did she ever drop everything for me? I’ll take care of this when I get good and ready.”

Evelyn winced and drew back. Then she edged forward, the fingers of one hand splayed against her side while the others were outstretched. “Aunt Ruthena . . .”

Pregnant women always keep one hand on their bellies. Is it pride of ownership? Are they looking for sympathy or attention? Well, this girl won’t get either. Ruthena only had eyes and ears for her incongruous thoughts and their subject. Gentle pressure on her wrist drew her focus to the fingers clasping it.

“I’m sorry. This day is important to you, and I should have called first. I just didn’t want to delay.”

Her niece’s humility took Ruthena’s outrage down a notch. “Well . . .”

Evelyn looked to her uncle and back to Ruthena. “Granny B and I planned to come together so she could bring this herself . . . she wasn’t up to it, though. But it was so important that I created this IKEA trip with Maxine to deliver it for her. I promise there’s no dirty work involved. Please, could you take a few minutes and open it? Together, like she asked.”

“Why do I need to do . . . whatever this is with Matthew?”

“Because she wanted to make sure you were okay . . . I guess.” Evelyn broke eye contact. She zipped up her purse and adjusted her shoulder strap.

Now she can’t look me eye to eye? “And what do you mean by ‘she wasn’t up to it’?” Ruthena tried to use the power of her glare to pin Evelyn to the floor, an ability her mama had passed on. But her niece must have inherited the Agnew gene for muleheadedness, which gave her the equal and opposite power of resistance; she wasn’t having it. Ruthena grudgingly accepted Evelyn’s hug and kiss—though she didn’t return it—and watched Evelyn back toward the red exit sign.

Good Lord, now she’s got both hands on her stomach. She’s just showing off. Ruthena shook her head.

Evelyn stopped at the door. “Don’t say no, Aunt Ruthena. You’ll regret it if you do. Take it from me: sometimes it’s important to read what’s right in front of you.” She pushed open the right door. “I’ve got to get to Maxine, but if you have any questions, feel free to call me or Mama—”

“Lis? What does she have to do with this?” Ruthena felt a need to move closer to Matthew. Her fingers nervously brushed the envelope in his hands.

But Evelyn was gone.

Ruthena glanced at the clock over the stove.

Matthew followed her eyes. “So does God say you have time for your mama . . . and for me?”

She faced him with a sigh. “Matthew, why am I always choosing between God and you?”

“That’s exactly my question, Ruthie,” he answered quietly. He brought his hands together over his heart. “I love you, and believe it or not, I love God, and He’s first in my life, too. Yet I’m also aware of the other things—and people—He’s blessed me with.”

Stung, Ruthena replied, “That’s so unfair, Matthew. I love you, and I know what a blessing you are to me. I can’t help that I need to fulfill other commitments I made.”

“And you made a commitment to me, too, and to the rest of your family. Isn’t that the point your niece made by coming here? Also, if I recall our oneness teaching, after God, I’m supposed to be your top priority—not the stewardess board, not the pastor’s aid committee, not the pastor, and definitely not this banquet tonight.”

She heard the echo of the sisters’ words.

“Listen, I’m not going to argue with you. I’m too tired.” He glanced at his Timex. “Those sessions cost us a fortune, and we can’t afford to waste a minute. We can continue this argument there. At least we’ll have a referee. The Allens can’t hide out much longer, so if you’re going to open this with me, we’d better get to it.” Matthew handed her the envelope.

Ruthena lowered herself onto a stool, then slowly slid an unpolished nail under the sealed flap and withdrew a set of folded pages. “It’s not like Mama to write,” she said more to herself than to Matthew. “My Lord . . . it’s a letter from Henton!”

“Henton?” Matthew tore his gaze from the double window. “Who’s H—? Your daddy?”

Catapulted back in time, Ruthena didn’t tell her husband she’d never called Henton that.

Ruthee,

Hey ther girl. You probly dont know wat to say hearin from me like this. I dont ritely know wat to say miself. Mosly, Im ritin to tell you Im livin in Jasper and I got a job. Won day Ill send yall somthin to hep you get by. You mite not wont to hear from me rite now but won day you mite.

Wen you was a babe I wuld just stand and look at you sleepin in that drar. You was probly the prittyest won of all them, lookin jes like your mama. Yo daddy wont noware to be seen. You had these beads of swet on yo nose and youd be chewin on yo fist. You was always hungry. B culdnt feed you enuf. She usta cry out at nite wen you bit her. Like you tryin to git more out of her. Seems to me you lached on to that Bible so tite sinse you new it was time to give up on yo mama.

I sit somtimes wondrin wat you gone turn out to be. How will yo man treat you? Will you have chillun? Wat will you do for work? I just hope I can see for miself won day. Ruthee, Im sho sorry for havin to leav yall, but ther aint much els I culd do. Yo mam try to ty the rope roun my neck, but it aint me she shuld be huntin. Im the won who stood by her. I dint go noware wen she needed sombody—

“Oh yes, you did,” Ruthena murmured.

—an I was ther for you even tho I dint have to be. I was willin to liv wit B but I aint gon suffer and like to die for doin it. Such a shame Milton had to. B can find me wen she see the lite and let up. I just hope it soon. Its cold heer, colder than home without all yall. If you get ol enuf to com see bout me, you can look me up at 23 Reedy Creek in Jasper. I imagin I hear from you for I ever hear from yo mama.

Ruthena was dumbfounded as she read Henton’s name at the end of the letter. He wondered how my life would be, if I would be happy, about my husband? Why am I learning about this now, God? Where did this letter come from? She studied the crinkled, yellowed pages, but no clue presented itself. Ruthena picked up the envelope to note the postmark and felt its weight. Another letter? Lord, I don’t think I can take more surprises. Not today. Ruthena carefully folded Henton’s letter and set it on the counter beside her.

“Ruthena?”

She looked up.

Matthew stood a few feet away, fiddling with the measuring spoons. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t really know, Matthew.” She pointed to the letter she’d set down beside the grocery bags. “That’s from Henton. My—my father. And this—” she held up the other note she’d just pulled from the envelope—“is another. So far, I’m not sure why my niece thought I needed your support. They’re just old letters.” Yet her heart seemed to slow as she unfolded the two pages.

Rutheena . . .

Her mother was the only one who spelled her name the legal way. Ruthena herself hadn’t discovered it until she was in the seventh grade when she’d happened upon her birth certificate.

Girl, I hope you can take some time up from those knees and spare me a minute. I imagine that after you read this and the letter from Henton you’re going to fall right back down on those knees, and you might stay there for a long, long time. I guess I can use that prayer. “Just what is going on, Mama?” I can hear you asking in that long-suffering voice of yours. Well, Rutheena, the fact of the matter is, I’m dying.

Ruthena skimmed the next two paragraphs and cried out, “She’s dying from leukemia! That’s why she sent Evelyn here, to deliver this . . . this . . .”

“What else does she say?” Matthew stepped closer, but Ruthena’s outstretched hand stayed him.

You’ve been doing fine keeping in touch, so don’t feel like any of this is your fault. Elisabeth lives just around the corner thereabouts, and she was about knocked off her feet. I have done my share of worrying and working things out, and I’m not worried no more, to tell you the truth. I done laid it at His feet. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t right much care how you deal with this. Just see that you do. I’ve got the how part to figure out, so the way I see it, your part is a bit easier.

Ruthena gasped, a hand to her mouth, and closed her eyes. She thrust the letter at Matthew. Once she felt him take it, her eyes opened, and she watched his mouth move as his eyes silently pored over the words. After a few minutes, she picked up where she’d left off, her voice hoarse and thick as she read aloud.

“Rutheena, part of me thinks of any of my children, you’ll work this out the best. Not because of that faith you put such store in, but because of that man Matthew who believes in both you and the Lord. When I see you with him, I see the real you, the one you hide behind your Bible. That need to know and be known, to love and be loved. The Rutheena that’s forced to lean instead of standing straight. You’re probably going to be the one who holds up the others or makes them so mad at you they’ll be too busy fretting over me, and for that, I’m grateful. Thomas for one don’t have that same willfulness.

But for that same reason, I wonder about you. Always have. When you were running to that church, I thought for a while you had something else going on, but you sure have stuck to it. You even found you that husband there. Maybe that’s where I should have looked. That work ain’t going to save you no matter how often you flip through them hymnals and rinse out them Communion cups. Remember that. I’m going to pray you find what you need and not what you’re scrambling for. So stop borrowing the happiness and the sorrows that belong to other folks. Hold tight to what’s yours, because it don’t pay to go through life always wanting something else or looking beyond the here and now.

That’s about all I can give you right now, and I hope you take it. I’m not going to say I’ve done what I could for you because I know I’ve done what I wanted to do, what I needed to do. I’m just hoping to hear, “Well done” from my Savior. I love you, even though you do bother the hell out of me sometimes—but I guess that’s exactly what you’re trying to do.

Take care of yourself, girl, by letting that good man take care of you.”

“Oh, Ruthena, Ruthena, I’m so sorry.” Matthew tried to wipe Ruthena’s face, but she brushed his hands away.

“Don’t say that. There’s no need for that.” Ruthena hadn’t realized she was weeping. “What do the old people say? ‘God don’t make a mistake.’ And they’re right.” Ruthena rose slowly, leaning on Matthew as little as possible.

“But—”

“I don’t know why I’m crying. What kind of good-bye is this anyway? It’s just Mama’s way.” Her voice strengthened. “Beatrice is in God’s hands. Now we just have to pray that one day she’ll be in His Kingdom—”

Matthew took Ruthena’s hands and pulled her to him. Ruthena braced her hands on his chest and pushed back.

“No, Matthew, stop. I’m fine . . .” But her voice faltered.

Matthew pulled Ruthena to his chest. He smoothed the wavy strands that had worked their way out of her low ponytail and stroked her back as she pummeled his chest with tightly balled hands. He locked his arms around her until Ruthena’s struggles grew weaker.

“No, Matthew . . . no,” she breathed into his neck, though it wasn’t Matthew’s comfort she rejected. In her heart she screamed, No! to God. Finally she clung to him tightly, sobbing, her stomach heaving.

When Caryn and Jacqueline flung the doors back on their hinges, Matthew waved them off, tucking his head against his wife’s and whispering in a cracked voice that eventually broke on the last word, “Oh, Ruthena, God, help us . . .”