My mind constantly replays Ruby walking out of the café door. The tinkling of the bell. And me still sitting with a cup of coffee in front of me. A cup of coffee and no friend.
Pulsing beats greet my ears as I open the door leading into the vestibule of the house. Two overstuffed ivory couches, dark cherry end tables and a longer cocktail table expertly arranged by my mom who has a knack for complementary colors.
As I walk past the kitchen, J.P. stands in his room ironing a blue-collared shirt and black jeans. I know why his shirts are so wrinkly all the time. The iron barely touches them. His full lips are too busy mouthing a song. The complexion of a melted Hershey bar and a baritone voice that fills a room much the way my father’s does, but without the pretention or ceremony. His toothpick legs bounce up and down to the beat somehow supporting his almost seven-foot frame and muscles hardened by manual labor during night shifts at the post office.
“I thought you were gonna be asleep,” I shout over the music.
J.P. turns down the volume. “Grandma Violet called from the church. I’m picking her up and bringing her back to the house. You’re early though. Thought you’d be home later,” he says.
“I had some stuff to do so I didn’t go to the other service.”
J.P. turns his head and looks at me. His eyes, a darker shade of cinnamon than my father’s, make some unspoken judgment about my words.
He makes a sound between a chuckle and a snort, “How’d that go over with the old man?”
“It didn’t. But I don’t care.”
“You do. You’re just frontin’ with me right now. You care.”
Unlike me, J.P. isn’t fooling himself. He’s not trying to shield his emotions like I am. He really doesn’t give a shit about dad being angry at him. J.P.’s free enough to let things fall off him like a set of oversized clothes. I move to leave. But before I leave his doorway, J.P. says, “You went to see Ruby, didn’t you?”
I say nothing. I don’t want to break a confidence, but when I turn around, I don’t look him in the eyes which is as good as saying yes and confessing every detail of my uneasy conversation in the coffee shop.
“You always look—” he pauses to find the right words “—a little less after you see her.”
“A little less what?”
“Everything. You look tired. Defeated. Sad. You look sad as hell, sis.”
I feel how my shoulders slump forward and all I want to do right now is sleep, but at this point I’m afraid I’ll have dreams of what I fear for Ruby.
“When will you be finished working on the painting?”
J.P. smiles and points to the corner. “I’m gonna work on the detailing of the background before I move on to finish the rest. It should take me a few more days.”
An easel next to his bed holds an incomplete landscape, a waterfall and a dense meadow, wildflower carpets and birds circling the sky. There is a man in the middle of the painting and he gazes at the unfinished horizon of the canvas.
“It looks good so far,” I say.
“How much do you think I’ll get for it?”
“I’m my brother’s keeper, not my brother’s art dealer.”
J.P. laughs and claps his massive black paws two times. Another rapper comes on the radio with a new song, a serenade on the world’s beauty, a caution about its seductive, harsh nature on a disenfranchised people. A million lyrical metaphors say the same thing, again and again.
I walk into my small room with one window facing a timeworn tree. Did I make a mistake letting Ruby leave that coffee shop without me? Is Ruby going to hurt herself? What do I do?
When I crave peace, I go into my closet. Really, that’s what I do. I place a folded towel at the bottom of the door to block out the remaining strip of light. I pray.
God, there are a lot of things I can’t see. I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix this or if I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I have to help Ruby so please Lord, help me do that. Please.
I wait. Not for a hand on a wall or a burning bush that talks. If I saw those things, I’d freak the hell out and run yelling from my home. But I need a sign, something to tell me what to do.
It’s been at least ten minutes and nothing. Leaning against the wall, I slide down and my bottom hits the floor. Part of a heel wedges itself uncomfortably underneath my backside. I place it to the side and yawn.
Not to rush you, God, but what am I supposed to do? I kinda need an answer now.
I wait some more.
J.P.’s music no longer plays. I hear the front door close. I feel foolish. Maybe I just need to rest.
I hear murmurs at first. I can’t make out the words. They break and crash on the edges of my consciousness. I open my eyes. I’m lying in a valley of downy grass. I look to my left and behold three rolling hills of lilies and gardenias and sunflowers, and blossoms that have no business being in the same place but are so pretty bunched and mingled together. The valley is green and blue and bright. The sun softens in saffron shades and golden light warms my skin. I’m dressed in a long white calico dress, but it’s not any shade of white with which I’m familiar. It’s pure and pretty and I’m happy. Grass rises up to meet my fingers and I walk up the second hill to a tall oak tree. Branches twist and bend. All the leaves are alive and a light, not coming from the sun, surrounds the tree and I see Three Women. There is such peace on their faces. One of them takes my hand and whispers. I try to hear her but can’t. I want to hold on to her hand longer, but her fingers loosen from mine and her hand gently pulls away. She caresses my face and walks back to the other two women and stands in the middle. I focus on their beauty. It’s not the kind of beauty on which one gauges attractiveness. It’s a beauty beyond physical features and proportions. I feel I know all of them but they have no names. I want to ask who they are but can’t form words. The Three Women look to the right, the day’s glow is swallowed by slate skies, and I hear thunder and see hot, pulsing curtains of lightning slamming into the ground in restless and violent intervals. The wind whips my white calico dress around my knees. I see the woman in the middle mouth a word once more. I reach out...
The walls of the closet surround me again and my arm is still extended in the darkness of my space. My eyes are adjusting again, but I don’t feel comforted by the stillness. The light musty smell of worn shoes lingers. I’m left with my thoughts, the sound of my breathing and the one word the woman in the middle repeated to me in the green valley over and over: Go!
I race outside to the Black Stallion and it won’t start. I take deep breaths, meditate, pray, beg, turn the key in the ignition. Metal grinds against metal, a stuttering, piercing whir murders the quiet of the neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon. It just sits, a rusting piece of motorized aluminum. Smoke seeps from under the hood; a toxic smell of burnt rubber and motor oil float in the atmosphere and now in addition to letting down my friend, I’m also contributing to global warming.
Damn it!
If this were a movie, after a couple of tries, the car would magically come to life and I’d drive off into a rust-colored sunset to save Ruby. But in this life, I now have to abandon my smoking car, pump my mighty thighs and run three blocks to the bus stop.
In that closet, in that vision, once I heard the word Go! I knew it was God.
Ruby is too precious and we’re too close for me to do nothing. I’ll make her see what I see. I’ll make her see how she can have a life, a new life away from Lebanon.
Not on a bathroom floor. Not with me saying goodbye to a friend in a casket like Momma had to. This story is ending a different way. With her and me. With marriages. With our kids getting on our damn nerves. This ends with phone calls and laughter and barbeques. Maybe even with our families coming back together. With grandkids and us complaining about how everything is too expensive now. This ends for us as old women rocking in porch chairs, hot days with cold sweet tea.
But for a happy ending, I need to find Ruby. I need her to see our future, the possibility of it.
I need Ruby to see how this, our story ends.
With both of us. Together.