Drowning Ruth (36 page)

Amanda steered a straight course through the early morning mist, one hand on the little four-horse Evinrude Joe had given her when he bought a more powerful one for himself. The motor buzzed so loudly she couldn't think, but she had to think. She hadn't decided what she would say or how she would say it, but Arthur had to leave Imogene alone—that much was obvious—and Clement, if he had any ideas … but that was unthinkable. Anyway, she told herself firmly, the time had come to make clear that this was her place, not his, and that he had caused enough trouble for one lifetime.

As she drew close to his boathouse, the smell nearly beat her back. The weed barge must have been cutting that morning, and a sea of weeds, studded with dead fish, clogged the water all along the shore. She killed the motor before the stringy fronds could tangle in the propeller and rowed the little distance to the pier. She tied her boat, and then on an impulse got out and sat on the boards where she had seen him sunbathe. She stretched her legs out full in front of her and tipped her chin back to catch the sun. She faced the middle of the lake, away from the lawn from which she knew he'd come. If anyone else found her first, well, let them.

“Motor trouble?” His voice sang over the weed-choked water, deep and clear as she remembered it.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. Dazzled by the brightness that had been beating against her eyelids, she could at first see only light and shadow. He was just stepping from the grass to the sand, and he raised his hand to shade his eyes.

“Need help?”

She didn't answer, could not answer. Her throat seemed to have swollen shut, and she trembled. It had been a mistake to come, a terrible error to think his betrayal would no longer sear her. Slowly, she turned to face him, tucking her knees under her chin and wrapping her arms around them to hold herself together. When he reached the pier, he was no longer looking straight into the sun.

“Amy?” He squinted in her direction, frowning, and then glanced quickly but unmistakably back toward the house, before hurrying toward her. The boards of the pier sprang under his weight, so that she rose and fell with each of his steps.

It seemed natural, his bending to give her his hand. Her cheek brushed the arm of his bathrobe as she allowed him to help her to her feet. She smelled the same old soap he'd used so many years ago, and those months with him rushed back upon her. Yes, for an instant she felt pleasure above all, as his nearness confirmed that a young, hopeful Amanda had once existed and was remembered, and the sweetness of this sensation was only intensified by the bitter realization that she existed no more. This man knew her,
had
known her, she corrected herself, however much he'd abused that knowledge.

He stared and stared at her, shaking his head in surprise. “Amy. Look at you. Just look at you.”

And against her will, she exulted in his approval. But she pulled herself back, sorry she'd let him, of all people, catch her up again. “I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, of course, Amy. But”—and he glanced, rather furtively, she noticed, to either side along the lakeshore—“not here, I think. Say,” he said, brightening, “why don't we take your boat and get away from this stink?”

She hesitated. She wanted to get it over with, but she still hadn't decided exactly what she meant to say. Keep your son away from my friend's daughter? It hardly sounded convincing. “All right,” she said. Talking to him would be easier, she told herself, if they weren't standing on his pier in full sight of his wife's windows.

The moment he stepped into her boat, she realized she hated him. He rowed a few strokes to get them clear of the weeds, and she kept on hating him, hated the certainty with which he handled the oars, just as he'd once handled her. She gave the cord on the motor two fierce tugs, and the Evinrude sputtered to life. Slowly, the tiny engine barely creating a ripple behind them, they crept into deeper water.

They didn't try to talk over the engine noise. Finally Clement, who'd been looking over Amanda's shoulder at the receding shoreline, said, “Might as well stop here as anywhere.”

Amanda noticed they were too far from shore to be seen, although not if the viewer had a pair of binoculars.

“So, Amy. What is it? Do you need money?”

It was her turn to stare at him. “Money? No, of course not.”

“Well, lots of people do these days. It's nothing to be ashamed of. And I'd be happy to see what I could do. I don't know how much exactly, but I'm sure I could loan you something.”

“Clement, stop. I don't need money.”

“Well, what then?”

She looked away from him over the water. What? What did she want to say? Imogene is our daughter. Was that it? She opened her mouth. “Why don't you go ahead and take your swim?” she said.

“What?”

“I mean I suppose you meant to take a swim this morning. You're dressed for swimming, aren't you? Why don't you go ahead as long as we're out here away from the weeds?”

Obviously puzzled, he said nothing at first, and then began to loosen the knot securing his bathrobe. “Well, all right,” he said. “Maybe I will. I like to get in at least a couple of laps every day. Then maybe we can drive around a bit. See that island you were always telling me about.”

He remembered the island. Amanda felt disproportionately grateful, and then disgusted with herself for that gratitude. It was funny, she thought, as he took off his robe and climbed onto the seat, how comfortable he acted with her, as if she had no reason to hate him, as if they'd parted on good terms and not very long ago at that, as if none of the terrible things she'd experienced had happened. He dove, shoving the boat several feet away from him as he thrust himself forward. Of course, as far as he knew, nothing much had happened. She'd cried, and they'd broken off, that was all. She realized with a start that he might even think she'd come back to him, that she didn't care anymore that he was married. Or perhaps that was ungenerous, she thought as she watched his slow crawl away from the boat. Perhaps he was only glad to see her again. Perhaps he thought she'd forgiven him.

Ruth reached under the collar of her dress and tugged at the strap that threatened to slip down her arm. It was eight-thirty. She was a full half hour early. Below her, the lake shimmered invitingly. Fishing boats manned by those irregular types who had no morning employment lounged in the pockets along its edges, and far out a man was diving from a little rowboat, his white torso shining in the strong, new sun.

Once she'd begun straying toward the sparkling waves, the
slope pulled her down the hill, until she was standing on a concrete sea wall. Two feet below, the lake at its annual low point swelled and receded biliously, raising and lowering its fetid cargo of red and white bobbers, brown paper sandwich wrappers, and stinking dead fish, all caught in a net of weeds. Ruth backed away. She might as well go early to work.

“Coffee?” the maid asked when she'd shown Ruth upstairs to a bright room, in which a roll-top desk stood against one wall.

“Oh, no, thank you.” Ruth slipped her hand over a scorched spot she'd just noticed on her skirt.

“Miss Lindgren always has coffee. With cream and three sugars. Like a confection.” The woman frowned disapprovingly and with that left the room, shutting the door behind her, and Ruth was left alone to regret declining the coffee.

She fingered the key in the desk. Should she wait or open it? Imogene should've given her more direction. Ruth paced around the room, passing her eyes over engravings and the spines of books without any real awareness of what she was seeing. She didn't want to be caught snooping. She could imagine Mrs. Owens in her wide-shouldered cinnamon suit and feathered hat—although probably she wouldn't be wearing the hat at home—bursting in, wondering why she hadn't gotten started. Hadn't Genie said there was some typing?

Ruth went back to the roll-top, turned the key and slid the top open. Yes, there was a Remington, and a stenographer's notebook open to a page of Imogene's neat shorthand. She slid into the desk chair, separated a clean sheet of paper from the stack and rolled it into the typewriter.

Twenty minutes later she was leaning over the machine, trying to decide whether a mistyped
i
could be adequately covered with an
l
, or whether she ought to start the page over, as her
instructors at Brown's would have insisted. The door opened behind her.

“It doesn't have to be perfect, just legible,” Mrs. Owens said. Mrs. Owens, Ruth saw, would never burst into a room. She was stately and poised; in her gray dress she looked something like a great blue heron. She glided forward, extending her hand. “You must be Rose. I'm so grateful to you for filling in for Imogene this week.” Her skin, smooth and cool, made Ruth conscious of the ink on her own fingers. “Didn't Ellen bring you any coffee?” And before Ruth could protest, Mrs. Owens was speaking into a device in the wall. “Would you bring coffee for two, please, Ellen? And don't forget the cream and sugar.” She turned back to Ruth and whispered, “Ellen doesn't approve of sweets.”

For an hour or so Mrs. Owens paced around the room as she dictated notes for a speech convincing her circle to donate funds to establish a summer camp for poor children. “Help me, Rose. I need to say something about fresh air, the importance of fresh air and exercise for both physical and moral growth. How can we expect these children to develop into upstanding citizens if we don't expose them to the healthy innocence of the countryside? Yes, that's good, Rose, get that down.”

Then, while Ruth transcribed the most promising lines, Mrs. Owens made telephone calls. “Well,” she sighed, setting the receiver down after the third call, “I guess that's all I'm going to get done today. I've got to ooh and ahh over the new pulmonary wing at St. Joseph's. If you could just finish up the typing and copy these into the appointment book, it would be such a help. If anything conflicts, let me know.” She handed Ruth a few letters. “Ellen will bring you lunch, of course. Just call her through the intercom whenever you want it.”

“All right,” Ruth said, although she knew she could never summon Ellen.

“I'll see you tomorrow then? Or Imogene?”

“Imogene, I think.”

“Well, Rose,” she said, giving Ruth her cool hand again, “you've been a great help. Thank you.” And then she was gone.

Ruth sat down to the typing. The paper she fed into the machine was luxuriously thick and soft, and a rich, creamy color, nothing like the nearly transparent stuff flecked with bits of wood and rag they had to use at Brown's. When she held it to the light, the watermark floated in the center like a secret kiss. Why hadn't she told Mrs. Owens that her name wasn't Rose?

Dear Mrs. Schmidt, I was so plased

Carefully, Ruth rolled the paper out of the typewriter and inserted a new page.

Dear Mrs. Schmidt, I wzs
Dear mrs.
Dre

Ruth yanked the fourth sheet of paper out with a sharp, satisfying zip. Anyone who did that at Brown's had to pay a fine for damage to the machine. Not wanting Mrs. Owens to see how many sheets of expensive letter paper she'd ruined, she folded her false starts and stuffed them into her pocketbook.

She walked once around the room to collect herself and then sat down again. A hairpin poked her scalp. One by one, she drew pins out, searching for the culprit, until her hair hung freely down her back.

Except for the typewriter, everything on the desk was decorated
to suggest a whimsical, aquatic theme. She picked up a letter opener with a silver handle scaled like a fish. Beside that crouched a green enamel box shaped like a frog from whose mouth protruded a tongue of stamps. She tore several off, licked them and applied them to envelopes. She would type the addresses later. Then she turned to the appointment book, which was covered in bottle-green leather and had its own little gold pen stuck in a ring on the side. Ruth filled in each obligation from the cards and letters Mrs. Owens had given her. First she wrote in pencil in case she made a mistake, and then she traced over the pencil with the gold pen.

The telephone rang, and she jumped. Was she supposed to answer it? She waited. It rang again, two rings, three, four. Why wasn't Ellen or someone downstairs picking it up? Finally, on the sixth ring, she lifted the receiver. “Hello?” But no one was there.

Ruth flipped back and forth through the appointment book: Soldiers' Home luncheon, tea for St. Anne's, S. Lemon, Avis home, Garden Club, Library Benefit, Athletic Club, Red Cross, Women's Club, dinner at the Joneses'. She pretended to answer a call. “Yes, this is Mrs. Owens's secretary… Let me see… I can squeeze you in between two-thirty and three o'clock on Wednesday, will that be all right? Thank you. Goodbye.” She wished the telephone would ring again.

Ruth closed the appointment book and stuck the pen back into its holder. She got up from the roll-top desk, moved to the table where Mrs. Owens sat, and reached for the fountain pen as if it were her own. She tried her signature on the back of an old envelope—Ruth Sapphira Neumann. Out the window, at the bottom of the hill, the lake like wrinkled tinfoil threw sunbeams in every direction.

Finally she returned to the desk and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. “Dear Mrs. Schmidt,” she pecked, keeping to a
slow but steady rhythm, “I was so pleased to talk with you last Thursday.”

Silently, Arthur opened the door to his mother's study. It had become his habit to surprise Imogene when his mother was out, to sneak as close to her as he could before she detected his presence, or at least before she let on that she noticed him. His first reaction, when he realized it was not Imogene who sat typewriting with her back to the door, was embarrassment at what he'd planned. When he recognized Ruth, his blood jolted. From surprise, he assured himself. That was all that affected him—surprise.

“Hello,” he said from the doorway.

As she whirled around, her wrist struck an inkwell, but she caught it deftly before it could fly off the table and disgorge its blue-black innards onto the Persian carpet. She uttered only a startled “Oh,” then turned away again in confusion, reaching to set the ink far back on the desk.