Red Ruby Heart in a Cold Blue Sea (9781101559833) Read online

  I said, “I don’t know.”

  “The buses will be by soon to take you home,” Mrs. Richmond said. “I imagine you’ll be out for some days next week. We’ll let your parents know for sure.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay here?” Rose asked me. “Shouldn’t we get under our desks?”

  “They want us to go home,” I said.

  Outside, she held my hand and looked up at the sky—for Russian bomber planes I guess—and we joined Dottie, Bud, and Glen near the bus stop. We looked across the road at the house on the other side. A brown dog sitting on the front steps looked back at us. He was hitched up to a thick rope. He yawned.

  “I wonder if they let that dog in when it’s cold,” Bud said. “They should let that dog in. Even hunting dogs should be taken inside.”

  “I bet they do,” Dottie said. “Otherwise, he’d be ugly. He doesn’t look ugly.”

  “Maybe he wants some bologna,” Glen said. “I got some in my lunch bag.”

  Sam Warner pulled into the schoolyard and we walked toward his car. “I got to go uptown, before they close all the friggin’ stores,” he said to us through the open driver’s window. “Get in, Bud.”

  “Okay,” Bud said, and Glen climbed in with him.

  “You two want to come?” Sam asked Dottie and me.

  Rose took our hands. “Please stay with me,” she said.

  “We’ll take the bus,” I said, and Sam drove away.

  Rose sat beside me on the bus. “My Poppy says the Russians have bombs that could blow the whole world up. I don’t want to be blown up.” She leaned against me. Her hair smelled like dust.

  “We’re going to die,” she said.

  “No, we’re not,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure. The world appeared to be made of a dangerous quicksand that could suck down mothers or presidents at any time. What was to stop it from grabbing on to our ankles and dragging us down, too?

  When the bus stopped at Rose’s road, she said, “Will you come with me? I’m scared I’m going to get bombed going down the road.”

  “I’ll walk you off the bus,” I said.

  “Her, too,” she pointed at Dottie, who sat across from us.

  “What?” Dottie asked.

  “We’re walking her off the bus,” I said.

  Tillie Clemmons, our bus driver, was blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “Where do you two think you’re going?” she asked.

  “We’re walking her off the bus,” Dottie said.

  “Okay,” Tillie said. “Hurry it up.”

  Then Parker drew his cruiser up next to the bus and Tillie cracked open her window and talked down to her husband. We walked Rose to the top of a steep hill that, we supposed, led to her house. And Tillie forgot why she’d stopped, I guess, because when Parker drove off, she put the bus into gear and left Dottie and me stranded.

  “What the hell,” Dottie said. “Now what?”

  “Walk me home?” Rose asked.

  I looked up at the milky sky and wished for Tillie to turn around. Surely, someone on the bus knew we were missing. Dottie asked Rose, “How far down is your house?”

  “Not far,” Rose said.

  “Can your father give us a ride home?” Dottie said.

  Rose nodded.

  “Might as well walk you home, then,” Dottie said, and we traipsed down the muddy road, scuffing through piles of yellow leaves that filled deep ruts made by tires. The rusted remains of old cars junked up the sides of the road.

  “You sad about the president?” I asked Dottie.

  “I don’t know,” Dottie said. “I can’t think of what to feel.”

  “Did you hear a plane?” Rose said, ducking. “There might be a plane up there.”

  We walked down, down and down, then Dottie said, “Don’t take this wrong, Rose, but are we walking to hell or what? Where’s your jeezly house?”

  “There,” Rose said, pointing toward what looked like more trees to us.

  “How does your dad get up this road?” Dottie asked. “It’s ruts in search of a road, looks like to me.”

  “He doesn’t go up this road since his truck broke down,” Rose said.

  We stopped. We both looked at Rose, and then we looked at each other. “How are we supposed to get home?” I asked Dottie. “Walk?”

  “We can call Leeman,” Dottie said. “You got a telephone, Rose?” she asked.

  Rose nodded.

  “You sure you got a phone?” Dottie asked again.

  Rose nodded again.

  “Daddy isn’t home, most likely,” I said. “What about Madeline?”

  “She went uptown to get her hair done,” Dottie said.

  “Maybe the place is closed,” I said, “on account of the president.”

  A low rumble sounded over the crackle of leaves.

  “What’s that?” I asked, and then I slipped and fell into a rut, getting mud all over my legs and dress. “Shit,” I said. “Grand’s gonna have a cow.”

  Dottie laughed. So did Rose.

  “Not funny,” I said.

  “Yes it is,” Dottie said. “You should see your ass.”

  “Well I’d have to be a giraffe, now wouldn’t I?” I said.

  “Don’t get pissed off at me,” Dottie said. “I didn’t push you down.”

  “Where’s your house?” I snapped at Rose.

  “There,” Rose said, pointing at nothing.

  “I don’t see the house,” I said. “Do you live in a house?”

  “Hey,” Dottie said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, brushing mud from my underpants and thighs. “It’s just that we got to get home soon.”

  The rumbling grew closer and louder.

  “What is that noise?” I asked.

  “Sounds like something growling,” Dottie said.

  “It’s Bigger,” Rose said.

  “What’s a Bigger?” I asked.

  In about thirty seconds, we knew.

  Bigger was a gigantic black dog with short pointed ears. His mouth was flecked with pinkish foam. He was tied to a tree by a thick rusty chain. He looked at Rose and she must have triggered a spark in his dim brain because for about five seconds, he wagged his mangy crooked tail. Then he figured out he’d never seen us.

  Dottie and I jumped back as he lunged at us full throttle with his teeth bared. The chain snapped to a straight line and I said, “Dottie, let’s just run.” But Dottie was pointing to something. “Jesus, look at that,” she said.

  A doe deer hung by its neck from a pine tree branch close to Bigger. Her tongue stuck out in a sickish pink brown mass. Her belly had been ripped open and her guts and stomach looped along the ground. I hoped she’d died before she’d been strung up.

  “Bigger won’t bite,” Rose said.

  “Who the hell are you?” a man’s voice boomed, and I grabbed Dottie’s arm as we spun toward the sound.

  A giant of a man stood about ten feet away from us. His dirty gray and brown beard fell over his chest like chewed-up pot-roast string. His flannel shirt may have been red and black once, if it had ever been new. His faded blue jeans were soaked with old and new stains that looked like old and new blood. He held a dirty shovel in his hands.

  “This is my Poppy,” Rose said. “This is Dottie and Florine. They walked me home. I was afraid of the Russians.”

  “What the hell you talking about, Rose?” Poppy said.

  Dottie and I began to take steps backwards.

  “What you mean about the Russians, Rose?” Poppy asked again. “Bigger, shut the fuck up.” He reached over and smacked the dog up the side of the head with the shovel. Bigger yelped and cringed away to the far end of his chain.

  “You know what she’s talking about?” Poppy asked
us and we stopped, lest we have our heads bashed in by the shovel.

  “The president died,” I said. “President Kennedy got shot.”

  Poppy laughed like a full winter moon might sound if it took a mind to have a good guffaw. Then he stopped just as sudden, and he said, “You don’t say. Someone finally had the sense to splatter his brains all over hell? This is a good day, Rose.”

  He reached down and rubbed the top of her head, just like Daddy did to me from time to time. I suddenly wanted to be with him more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life.

  “Where you live?” Poppy asked. “You live around here?” He stepped toward us.

  “Spruce Point,” Dottie said, naming another point five miles away from us. “We got to go. See you in school, Rose.” And Dottie gave me a shove to get us started.

  When Rose said, “Goodbye,” we ran, certain we’d feel the hot, hellhound breath of Bigger before he ripped out our calves, or Poppy’s shovel staving in our skulls. We ran when we reached Route 100 and we ran toward The Point, about three miles away.

  We were so scared that the sound of a car prompted Dottie to yell, “Hide!” We hit the ditch on the side of the road. The car whizzed by and when the noise died away, we got up. We ran, walked, and jumped into ditches. We ripped our dresses and scratched up our legs, arms, and hands. We reached Ray’s at dusk. Daddy’s truck was just turning onto the road. He pulled over and he and Bert jumped out.

  “Where have you been?” Daddy cried and grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. You hear?” His haunted eyes filled with tears.

  We clung to each other.

  Everyone on The Point ended up at Grand’s to watch the president’s funeral; to see the jumpy horse they called Black Jack with the boots turned backward in the stirrups of the saddle, to listen to the drums, and to cry when John John saluted the casket.

  And where was Carlie? Was she in the crowd that lined the streets along the funeral parade? Did she miss me like I missed her? Was she as lost as the rest of us?

  School started up again on Tuesday. Dottie and I sat together one seat ahead of Glen and Bud. As we got closer to Rose’s stop, we didn’t slow down. Tillie beeped at the driver of a smaller school bus stopped at the end of Rose’s road as we drove past.

  “That’s the retard bus,” Glen said, and everyone went quiet.

  Dottie said, “Maybe them teachers will help her. Might be the only thing saves her.”

  13

  Less than a week after President Kennedy was killed, Thanksgiving came and almost went without a peep. Daddy, Grand, and I went to Bert and Madeline’s house for turkey that tasted like sawdust and stuffing I couldn’t even look at. Grand’s mincemeat pie filling turned sour in my mouth and I swallowed it down with milk gone to chalk. Madeline and Grand talked over dates for the upcoming annual Point wreath-making day. This was a day when all The Point women, including little Evie and Maureen, got together at Grand’s house with wire and Christmas whatnots and doodads to make wreaths to sell at the craft fairs in Long Reach, or to ship out of state to some of the summer folks wanting a piece of Maine for Christmas. Sam, Bert, Daddy, Glen, and Bud got permission from the park manager every year to go into the State Park and tip fir and spruce trees for the wreaths. It was usually a fun day, but as they talked about it, I slumped further and further down in my chair in the corner of the overcrowded table, already tired and sad thinking about having to go through it without Carlie.

  Lucky for me, on wreath-making day, I had a combination fever and cold that was making its way through school. Dottie got it, too, and the two of us sat in her living room, hacking and sniffling and watching Saturday afternoon bowling, one of Dottie’s favorites. Maine’s woman bowling champion, Barbara Raymond, was knocking down the big pins like they were feathers. Dottie was a Barb Raymond fan.

  “I can’t wait to go to junior high,” Dottie said at one point. “They got bowling teams and I’m going to get onto one.” I nodded off on the couch during one of Barb’s strikes and slept that day away.

  If I could have, I would have slept Christmas away, too, but Grand told me that I had to make the best of it. So, I came up with some ideas for presents, and we worked on them as the days crept closer.

  Carlie had been the heart and soul of Christmas. She loved the music, she loved the presents, she loved the season. I was too old, now, to make a list to send to Santa Claus, much less believe in him, but that year, I took a piece of paper out of the little lift-up-top desk in the corner of my room and wrote, Dear Santa, Please send my mother home. I will never be bad again. I promise. I mean it. Thank you, Florine. I put it into an envelope, addressed it to the North Pole, and put it back in the desk. Then I waited for the day to arrive, so we could get it over with.

  On Christmas morning, my stocking fell off my bed with a clink. I let it lie on the floor and stared at the ceiling knowing that Daddy had filled it and put it there. A newspaper rustled in the kitchen and he cleared his throat. I got dressed, picked up my stocking, joined him and said, “Let’s go to Grand’s.”

  Daddy had said that we should have our special times, but he was quick to agree that we should walk across the road, so we gathered up our gifts and walked to Grand’s house against a frigid wind and pellets of snippy snow swirling up from the water.

  We reached Grand’s house and stomped our boots as we went inside. Grand didn’t seem surprised to see us so early. I arranged the presents just so under Grand’s tree, and then we opened them. For Daddy and me, Madeline had painted and framed a watercolor of the harbor near sunset that showed the Carlie Flo at her mooring. Ida had quilted me a blue wall hanging with colorful butterflies stitched onto it. Dottie wrapped up two thick Archie comic books in old Sunday funny papers. Grand knitted me a thick warm sweater out of soft light green yarn. And Daddy had somehow found time to buy me a stack of Nancy Drew mysteries. With Grand’s help, I had knitted Daddy a sky-blue scarf and a matching watch cap that made his eyes shine. With Madeline’s help, I had painted a wavy watercolor picture of Grand’s summer garden.

  I could have sworn that Carlie sat cross-legged beside me, breathing down my neck as I opened my presents. I swallowed my tears and made as much noise as I could when I opened them. I was relieved when all of our gifts had been unwrapped and it was over. Grand made the three of us hold hands during grace. It was the most comforting part of the day, clinging to Daddy’s dry, scarred hand on one side of me, and Grand’s soft old hand on the other. Both of them squeezed my hands at different times during the prayer, and I held them tight. Then the three of us ate a quiet dinner.

  Later, Daddy and I plowed home with our presents through about three inches of snow, chuffing out air as sharp as hard cider. That night when I went to bed, I reached into my desk, took out the letter I’d written to Santa, and ripped it into little pieces. “Bastard,” I said. I slept with no dreams that night, and that might have been my best present since Carlie’s disappearance.

  I was eating breakfast the next morning as Daddy bundled up and got ready to go out and shovel. He looked out of the kitchen window, then jumped back and said, “Oh Jesus. What does she want?”

  “Who? What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Hide me,” he said. He headed for the door that led to the cold upstairs. We’d never heated those two rooms. They’d always served as an attic for our junk, including items left behind by Hattie Butts, who’d lived there before us, moved to Florida, and died there.

  “Tell her I’m not here,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

  I looked out the kitchen window and saw Stella Drowns wading through the snow. “What the hell is she doing here?” I thought. I sat back down to wait for her. She saw me through the window in the kitchen door when she knocked and she waved a red-gloved hand as if we were friends. I just stared at her. When she called through the glass, �
�Good morning, Florine,” hot air from her mouth clouded the glass and hid her face. She wiped it away and smiled at me as I walked, heel to toe, to open the door.

  “Morning,” she said, cold air clouding her black hair. Her cheeks, except for the scar, were rosy and her gray eyes were light, like the snow-filled sky. “Was Christmas okay?”

  I snorted. “What do you think?” I said.

  Stella hesitated for a few seconds, and then said, “I made a coffee cake for you both.”

  “We ate,” I said.

  “Is your father home?” she asked me.

  “Yes,” I said. “But he saw you coming and told me to say that he wasn’t here.”

  Stella cocked her head like a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

  I was about to repeat it louder when Daddy came downstairs and joined us at the door. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gave me a foolish look.

  “Morning Stella,” he said. “Come in out of the cold.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Florine said you told her to tell me you weren’t here.”

  “Well, that’s what you said to say,” I said. Daddy gave me a look and Stella laughed.

  She and Daddy sat at the kitchen table and had coffee and cake. She asked if I wanted some. It smelled wonderful, but I refused. Instead, I watched television and waited for her to leave.

  If I’d been thinking, I would have planted myself at that table. I might have read some words between the words. But I wasn’t thinking, so I didn’t catch Daddy’s slow thaw.

  14

  New Year’s Eve parties at the Buttses’ house were tradition. We kids ate sweets till we got sick, while the adults boozed it up, smoked, played cards, and did it all louder as the night went on. Last year, we’d counted down outside the house, looking into the sky at the stars, Carlie holding up Daddy as he swayed. Her fruity wine breath tickled my nose as I cuddled into the curve of her waist. On the way home, Daddy fell down in the snow. He tripped up Carlie, who fell down in front of him. When she tried to get up, he grabbed her ankle and held on. He pulled me down, too, and Carlie and I wet our pants laughing before we managed to struggle up and lug him, between us, into the house.