Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) (20 page)

“Yes, I know you’re an attorney. It’s irrelevant.”

“Nothing is irrelevant. I thought you, as a scientist, knew that.”

I crossed my arms.

“You’re impatient with this line of reasoning.”

“I am.” I met his eyes. They were patient.

“As an attorney I can’t discount anything. Every possibility, every potential argument, needs to be vetted. I better be sure that I’m never blindsided by an argument. Because if I am, I’ve failed my clients.”

“Okay.” I saw the logic. “But I’m not your client.”

“Thoreau said ‘It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.’”

“Thoreau?”

“Henry David.”

“The philosopher.” I let my words dropped like ingots, without enthusiasm.

“Yes. Is philosopher a dirty job?”

“Not very practical. Kind of a fairytale storyteller. Making up myths.”

“I guess that’s
one
way of looking at it. Perhaps arguing a point might be more accurate. You’re pretty hard on yourself. People have been debating attraction forever.”

“Like a lawyer.”

“I suppose. It’s a discussion. And what’s wrong with myths anyway?

“Are you schooling me?”

“Don’t we all school each other? Isn’t that what the ancient myths are all about? Anyhow, the point is that I don’t see what you see.”

“No?”

“Your husband found you attractive. I’m sure there have been others.”

I thought of the past twenty-four hours. “Perhaps.” I felt my crescent dimples emerging. “But attraction is different than beauty.”

Aah.” He also smiled. “I’m not the only one.”

His eyes jumped back. He realized what he’d said.

I flushed.

He gave a little cough. “What I mean is . . . there’s a lot of data out there and we attempt to organize and translate it so it makes sense to us. But each one of us has peculiar filters. Information gets jumbled. You appreciate that, working in the lab.”

“In the lab we have control groups, we’re objective. Personal opinions don’t count.”

“Objective? You like thinking everything’s under control.” He sounded a little smug to me.

“That’s not what I said!” My jaw clenched. “What’s relevant to me is that,
according to qualified research,
even the relative length of the second to fourth finger may reveal developmental facial imbalances, which could be addressed prenatally.
That’s
vetting it, not winging it. Down to the digit.” I raised my pinky and rubbed it in front of him.

“Why do you do the work you do?”

“I’m studying.” I grew restless on the couch. “I’m learning to narrow down, to isolate factors, to find answers, to help people.”

“Narrow down? And is everything research? Is everything work?”

“Yes, narrow down!” I got to my feet. “Time for me to go. If you need any help with Syd or Elizabeth, let me know.” I softened ever-so-slightly, just for a moment. “Please.”

“Why not sit down and consider broader factors. Maybe things can’t always be isolated.”

“I think they can. Please tell Elizabeth I’m pulling for her.”

“A good scientist doesn’t turn her back on an argument.”

“That’s an attorney,” I said rising and grabbing my swim bag. “Scientists don’t argue, we measure. Happy New Year.” I walked out.

“So nice for you to stop by,” he yelled after me. The sarcasm stung my ears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Roddy was a pompous ass
. Down West End Avenue, irritated and walking in cadence to that irritation, my stomach churned.
No wonder Elizabeth drank
.
No wonder!

When I re-focused on the street, I discovered security gates —grids of metal everywhere. Not a storefront open. Except . . . light poured onto the sidewalk a block and a half down. Closer, music tempered the air, lilting, warming the concrete. Not as loud as the last time I’d passed Ruthie’s Roti.

“Sistah doondoos, you come back.” This time the albino Jamaican woman’s head was bound in a simple-but-elegant avocado green turban. She lit a cigarette from the ember of the previous one, swatted ashes off her ample bosom, and tossed the used butt away. She had a big expansive face, even friendlier than I’d remembered.

“All is good. C’mon now. Disya place, I told you.” She sized me up and down then broke into a broad smile, “I see you been ah-gone-ee since I see you, sistah. Good thing.”

“Agony?”

“No, sistah. The good stuff. Sex, right? C’mon, sit in my place, we talk.”

Heat struck at my temples. I felt exposed, like the Jamaican woman could see me, inside and out. Impossible.

She waited, one meaty arm on her hip, the other waving the cigarette in a slow figure eight as if conjuring the night, as if there was nothing unusual about her comment; as if she’d already moved on. Up and down the street, darkness. The light was buttery as before, an oasis.

As I stepped into the shop I noticed the sign in the window:

Spiritual Readings & Conjure

Miss Ruthie Bluestone

Help in all matters of life, love, health &

reuniting with loved ones.

• Remove evil influences
  
• Improve financial status
  
• Interpret dreams
  
• Read bone
  

Oh!
But I was already in. She beckoned me to sit in a corner where shelves of disorderly white linens rose to the ceiling flanked by two wooden chairs. On the other side of the store, slow cooking food wisped out of chafing dishes. A tantalizing aroma —clove, garlic— I couldn’t place it.

“Sit, please. You want drink?”

“No, thank you.” I lowered my swim bag to the floor.

“Okay.” She sat next to me and blew smoke in my face. I waved it away. “So,” she said, “what you think?”

I don’t know why this struck me as comical, maybe I just felt good for a change, my annoyance with Roddy aside. I tried not to smirk. “I’m not interested in fortune telling, and I’m not paying for it.”

“Okay. What you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“Every thing; the duppy; every thing.”

What the heck?

“You not only won who see.” Her arms flapped like curd buntings on a clothesline. “You understand?”

“No, not really.” I was doing my best not to laugh, but I
felt
cheerful. I liked her.

“Okay. You understand
duppy
?”

“No.”

“He’s your ghost.”

“Ghost?”

“You carry him round. You better put him way sometime. There’s no other way, okay?”

“Sure, okay.” Whatever.

She wasn’t annoyed. “Okay, let’s try the water. You and me, we like the water.” She pointed to the swim bag at my feet. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“You see things, yes, without your eyes.”

“I guess I do, sometimes. But how—?”

“I see different, but okay. Like water. Hmm, it’s different. For you,” she pantomimed a swimming stroke and a large circle motion.

I filled in. “Lakes, ponds.”

“Yes, that. Me, the ribba. You understand ribba?”

“River, yes.”

“You want to go in water. I understand. Me too, when I was a little girl. But water can be dangerous, you know. My daughter Vinnette, she can tell you, water can be dangerous. You be careful. There’s a Jamaican legend, “Ribba Mumma,” okay?”

I was amused. “Please.”

“Ribba Mumma, she’s a mermaid, very beautiful. Black hair, okay? Long. For hair, she have, you say golden, golden comb.” She moved her fingers above her head to demonstrate. “Comb.”

“Yes, I understand. Ribba Mumma has a gold comb.”

“Good. If she show up don’t look at her. Don’t look at Ribba Mumma. Not with your eyes. She very dangerous.” She wagged her finger, took another drag off her cigarette. “Be careful when you swim. Stay away from Ribba Mumma.”

“This is the legend?”

“Shush.” She shut her eyes and tilted her head back for a moment. She reached out her hand searching for mine and I instinctively took it. She held it and spoke with her eyes closed. “When you leave water, look around, pick up Ribba Mumma comb. Don’t look at her after you take comb. Understand? You be rich!” She settled in, opened her eyes, satisfied with a huge grin, her face glistening, as if all problems had been resolved.

“Okay.” Folktales and superstition everywhere. “You see my face?”

“Mmm.”

“Ugly. What would make it beautiful?”

“No, no. Oh no. Never say baby beautiful; makes her grow ugly. You say she ugly, she grows beautiful. That’s the way. Nothing to do.”

“That simple?”

“Could be, yup. Could be.”

“Well, thank you  . . .” I peeped at my watch. Nan was probably worrying about me.
Someone worrying about me!
New, reassuring, and disquieting at the same time.
Why me?

“You need place? Could be upstairs, you wanta see?”

“An apartment here?”

“Could be, wanta see? Cheap.”

“Thank you . . . what’s your name?”

“Miss Ruttie.”

“Thank you, Miss Ruthie. I already have two homes.” There was irony in that.

“No, I don think so.” Ruthie crushed the cigarette under her considerable weight. “When ready, you come. You live in Ruttie place.” Her smile revealed large yellowed teeth and darkened gums. “This your place.”

***

When I arrived at Levi and Nan’s, Nan was waiting up for me, sitting in a dark corner of the living room wrapped in an expensive looking turquoise negligee. “Where’ve ya been?”

“I told you I was going out.”

“You could be robbed or raped or both on the streets at this hour. Didn’t the other night give you a taste of that?”

“I’m okay.” I hung my overcoat in the closet.

“About the other night . . . ” She remained in the shadows.

“I am so grateful. You were amazing.”

“Yes, but why do you suppose he chose you first?”

“What?”

She lifted out of the chair and into the meager light. “Nothing. It’s just . . . nothing.  I was hoping you’d take a tub with me.” She saw my resistance. “Just a short one. I’ve already filled it. C’mon, just for a few minutes. It’ll help you sleep.”

What was she getting at?

“It’s waiting for us.” She touched my shoulder and cheek as she walked by.

Water, steeping in a warm tub . . . “Okay, but just a few minutes.”

The perimeter of the large Moroccan Room tub was circled in candles, the walls suggesting a sleepy grotto. Nan soaked in it, her majestic face cameoed in a regal mist, her eyelids closed in trance; her lips parted in . . . anticipation? Perhaps carnal, though I wasn’t interested. Not this evening. Yet I couldn’t resist the water. It stirred as I slipped in.

“You’re still healing. You need to pace yourself.” Nan didn’t open her eyes. “Haven’t we been taking good care of you?”

“You have, but I’m pretty capable.” Light perspiration beaded on my forehead, serenity snaked into my bones. I started to unwind.

She rolled her neck, that serpentine neck. Still, her eyes remained closed. “You said that before. I should go with you the next time. Where’d you go tonight?”

“To see a friend.”

“I thought you didn’t have any friends here.”

“I guess I was wrong. Listen, I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She opened her eyes. They were glassy. “Let me rinse your back before you go.”

Well, I was already in. “Okay, but then I’ve got to get some sleep.” I turned my back to her. My eyes drifted closed, anticipating her touch.

“Maybe wash your hair too, your beautiful effervescent hair.”

“No, I’m too —”

She yanked my hair down into the water, steadily bringing me backward and under until the bathwater closed in around me, covered my face, invaded my throat, plugged it, stole my breath. My eyes flashed opened. My hands went up, everything moving and formless in the short light. She kept tugging. Hair hot-wrenched from scalp.

She didn’t realize. Let me up!
No stored air. I tried to lift but nothing was solid; there was nothing to leverage. Pinned under.

I thrashed. Thunder in my ears. My throat knotted and cramping. My chest an iron slab, hauling me down. Deep, irrevocable sleep moments away. I kicked back, hard, against her, slamming her against the end of the tub. She let go. I surfaced coughing, my throat raw, the air precious, my chest pounding.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said before I could turn. “I thought you’d like it.”

It took another moment before a space opened in my lungs and the spasms in my chest subsided. When I finally focused on her she exuded a soft worried aura.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so.” I reached for the rim.

“Good.”

I lifted myself out, took hold of my robe and turned to her one last time. I savored several full breaths. “Are you angry with me?”

“Angry? No. I guess I wasn’t thinking. But you’re okay?”

I wrapped the robe around me. “I’m okay.”

Those aqueous eyes studied me, those voluptuous lips wet with appetite. A sense of buried hunger, maybe even delight. “Good.” She reclined in the tub and reclosed her eyes.

I backed out of the room. I hoped Levi would come home soon.