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It was early evening when Ruby pulled the photo album from the top shelf of the closet and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Following her last haircut appointments, she had put the wet towels on to wash and dry, setting the room to humming and smelling of perfumed fabric softener. Save for that, and the sound of the television from the living room where Sister watched the evening news, the room was quiet.
Ruby did not make a habit of watching the news, finding terrorism and violence depressing. But she knew this evening she could no longer avoid what discomfited her. She took a seat at the kitchen table and opened the album to the page holding twenty-five-year-old newspaper articles from the Daily McAlester Democrat. She avoided focusing on the picture of her dead husband, for the first time reading the articles slowly and with deliberation. She paused to read one paragraph aloud.
“The warden apparently does not know who called in the release from the prison and I don’t plan on letting him find out because the person would probably lose his job, a representative from the radio station said.”
“That’s right,” Ruby murmured, pausing. “The radio station got wind of the escape before we were notified and wouldn’t reveal its source.” She continued her reading.
“Members of the family tried to call through the prison switchboard but could receive no verification. One family member went to the main OSP gate but was not allowed admittance to see the warden . . .”
“Was that Mack who did that?” She paused to think. “No, more likely that was Pa.” She turned again to the article.
“That evening, the prison chaplain was sent to see Barlow’s widow . . .”
Ruby felt her throat closing and try as she might, could not swallow. She filled a glass with water from the kitchen faucet and sipped on it until she could swallow once again.
“But where does it talk about a suspension?” Returning to the table, Ruby read the follow-up article.
“The city council established a notification system with the prison in the event of an escape. As it stands now the prison notifies the city immediately if they suspect an escape and then they verify the report when a count is completed. Police report that the penitentiary notified them at 12:30 p.m., which was just after the escapee was found to be missing at the prison. The guard on duty has been placed on disciplinary suspension pending investigation.”
Ruby studied the words. “I don’t understand,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “They knew the man escaped early in the afternoon, and they called the radio station and police before we were notified? Why would they do that?”
“Because someone was negligent, that’s why,” Sister said, entering the room. “But you’d never get those bureaucrats at the pen to admit it.”
Ruby had been so engrossed that she did not hear the sound of the TV being shut off or Sister’s approach. “But it doesn’t mention a name.”
“I already told you that. But don’t you think it’s funny that Tootsie’s boy Junior decided to quit his job right after that investigation? You want some cocoa? That walking around this morning’s got me a little stiff.”
“You sit down, I’ll make us both a cup. You should’ve stayed in the car. Did you catch the weather report?”
“Stayed in the car? Why today’s the best time I had in a month of Sundays. I already have tomorrow’s route mapped out. This weather’s supposed to hold another week, then a front’s coming in from the Gulf. Could bring freezing rain. We don’t have a minute to waste.”
Ruby set the teapot on to boil and rummaged in the pantry for the box of cocoa mix.
Sister laid the plat map on the table and asked, “Where’s Mack tonight? He didn’t go back out to look for Bill and Jack, did he? Could break a leg in the dark.”
“No, he had to follow up on something on this house deal. I’m scheduled to give cousin Bessie a perm tomorrow. It’ll take all morning, and I have a color and cut at one-thirty.”
“I suppose Bessie’s bringing her own perm, like she always does.”
“You know that’s my policy. She saves a little money buying those boxed perms on sale.”
“Bessie could buy out the Walmart if she wanted to. She’s got more money that she knows what to do with.” When Ruby did not reply, Sister picked up another thread. “You heard from Nonny? What kind of luck’s she having?”
“Yes—no. She left a note with the mail saying she hadn’t found anything, but she didn’t call.”
“It’s because you made her mad.”
Ruby sighed. “I’ll apologize next time I see her. So you figure Junior Turner was the one called the radio station?” She looked puzzled. “Why would he do that? It doesn’t make sense.”
Sister pushed the photo album aside. “No, it doesn’t. It makes more sense that he was the one called the police. Then he probably called his mother to let her know he was all right, figuring the word would reach her about somebody at the pen getting killed.” She paused, eyes blinking. “Tootsie probably called the radio station. That’s just the kind of flamboyant thing she would do.”
Ruby drummed her fingers as she waited for the water to a boil. “Does sound like her, doesn’t it? And of course, the pen would record who made the call to the Police, maybe even track all the phone calls that were made. That means they would’ve found out Junior Turner called Tootsie and put two-and-two together, which would take hours—and delay the Warden talking to Pa.”
“Water’s boiling,” Sister said.
Ruby stirred water into the cocoa mix and carried it the table. “So all because of Tootsie Turner, we weren’t notified of Will’s death until after the rest of the world knew about it.”
“Water under the bridge, Ruby. Doesn’t do any good to dwell on such things.”
“I know, I know . . . But I have to say, it’s a good feeling when things start to fall into place. Well, not good, but you know what I mean.” She sighed. “That would account for Tootsie suddenly deciding to come to me to get her hair fixed—and those big tips. Lord, I’d just like to . . . to hurt her—hurt all them Turners!”
“That kind of thinking will just bring hurt to yourself.” Sister blew her cocoa to cool it. “At least the woman’s got a modicum of conscience.”
“Modicum of conscience?”
“I just heard that on the news program. The reporter was talking about this terrorist who didn’t have a modicum of conscience. It means he felt no regret for what he’d done. Tootsie must have a little bit of one or she wouldn’t be feeling guilty.”
Ruby snorted. “Must not feel too guilty, else she wouldn’t have canceled out her Friday appointment.”
Sister tapped her spoon on the side of her cup, filling the kitchen with a tink-tink-tink sound. “Might not have been her doing.”
Ruby considered this. “You might be right. Even if she was the cause of us not being told about Will right away, it still doesn’t explain why old man Turner won’t tell Mack where Bill and Jack are buried . . . or explain why Tootsie never talked about her friendship with Grace in all these years.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Sister’s fingers tapped a slow, staccato beat on the oak table. “That’ll take a little more figuring out.”
Ruby nodded slowly. “You’re thinking there’s some kind of connection between the two things.”
“Aren’t you?”
The dryer finished its cycle and shut down, but Ruby did not fold the towels. The breeze rattled the limbs in the tree over the roof, but Sister paid the noise no mind. The sisters ceased their conversation altogether. All was quiet in the old Craftsman-style house under the sweet gum tree. Serenely quiet, save for the sound of two sets of fingers drumming out a staccato rhythm on the top of an old wooden table in a dimly lit kitchen.
