Ruby (38 page)

Ephram paused and took in the lake in the dimming light. The Pastor was kindly waiting, yet with a smug look of victory tugging at his lips. K.O.’s wife had not stopped singing “Oh Happy Day” for fear Verde might cut in. Ephram was glad. She did the song justice. So much so that frogs began their nightly serenade early. The crickets joined in along with a bold mockingbird. Ephram took a breath, lifted his foot when he felt the push on his back. He turned around. It was Celia. Not content to allow him to walk unescorted into his new life, she had walked past the congregation to the shore and given him a little nudge.

Ephram stood still as a pine. He did not turn his head either way. So she pushed him again. Harder this time. So Ephram spun around and grabbed her hand.

The singing stopped.

He looked firmly into her shocked eyes and said simply, not raising his voice, but loud enough for every person on the banks to hear, “Celia, you best stop.”

Then he let go of her hand.

She stood there, a rush of anger flashing.

Ephram turned from Celia and walked into the water towards the Pastor. It was cool against his legs, then his pelvis and waist. The Pastor put out his hands as Ephram walked right past him, slipped off the gown and began swimming towards the middle of the lake. His legs powerful, his arms dipping into the dark green water and lifting back again. He filled his lungs with air as he swam across the lake.

Then his heart filled with the thought of Ruby as he swam, the amber of her skin and the frothing black waterfall of her hair. Suddenly he wanted to pull out all of his Mama’s old recipes and cook them for her. Smothered chicken and okra, corn bread and pecan pie. He did not know what would happen. For now, it just felt good to swim under the white of the moon. He would figure out the rest when he reached the other side.

R
UBY STOOD
in the forest. The song seemed to enter her. Night had almost arrived. Ruby watched the stars dotting the sky far to the east. The west still held on to twilight.

She did not know which way to walk. She did not know where to go. She wished she had told her children so many things. She wished she had told them that it was their birthright to rise. That nothing could hold them. That anything the Dyboù said was a lie. She wished she had told them to fight—

Then she knew. Before she could teach anything, she had to know it herself.

Night had almost arrived. Ruby watched the moon rising and saw a crow making lazy eights high above her.

S
HE LOOKED
up high and saw that the top of the pine had turned black with shining wings for leaves. There were hundreds of crows perched on the narrow branches.

Another landed, closer than the others, upon a new pine cone peeking from the needles. The weight of the crow loosed a mist of green dander that dusted from the tree. It lightly rained upon Ruby’s face.

Ruby wiped her cheeks, and another cloud floated down, sticking to her hair. It felt like a baptism, washing away the day, the weeks and the years of crazy.

A silence settled over the crows and Ruby saw them, wings fluttering, dancing above her. That is when the first of her children peered behind the great outstretched black and tumbled down into her lap. Then the next. Then Tanny, climbing down, laughing. The crows had had them all the time, keeping them until it was safe. The Spirit had lied. Her children all came, like baby spiders on silk strings. Ruby called them to her.

They gathered close under the pines, the wind playing with her hair. She smelled the honeysuckle and the dry dust of pine needles.

Then Ruby stood and walked, all of her children around her giggling, running ahead, swinging from the low branches. Ruby walked all the way to Bell land, into her door, and looked about the place. She lit the lantern. Then two, then five, until the place was
golden and warm. She noticed that a bit of dust had blown into the kitchen so she picked up her broom and began to sweep. Next she would wash the curtains. The bedding could use boiling as well.

Ruby walked to the window and looked. There was the ripe scent of something coming through the woods. It was sweet and salty, like pomade and sweat. Tears of gratitude wetted her eyes.

She turned to her children. She had so much to teach them. To stand. To fight. To believe in rising. She would teach them. She would teach herself. She felt her heart beating steady in her chest. She could give each of them this knowing. She would give it to them like angel cake.

I’
D LIKE TO THANK
the talented Cole Rucker, Beth Collins-Burgard, Lorrie Fienberg and, of course, my mother, Dr. Zelema Harris, for finding me lost in the thicket of the piney woods, time and again. For resetting my fractured spirit, for warming me with gumbo, tales of mugwort; sharp, pointed wit; and the sweet balm of trust, then guiding me, with love, back to the waiting road. For teaching me, by their magnificence of character, how to live. My agent, Nicole Aragi, for first, choosing my manuscript, which changed the course of my life, then with patience and astounding equanimity gifting me with a sturdy map and compass to help me track a clearer, more meaningful path. For answering every lonely, anxious call with knowing kindness, and for having a belief in my work, so sturdy and firm, that it slipped past my doubt and into my heart. Thanks to my editor, Lindsay Sagnette, who bore gentle witness to both horror and joy. Who led me to blue smoke, clouding the pit fires, and the wind carrying the scent of sweet and salt. Whose stunning insight made all of my waking, walking dreams a reality. To the undaunted, torch bearer, publisher, Molly Stern, for leading not only me, but so many writers, towards the northern star. To everyone at Hogarth, for shaping a trudging hope into a firm reality. To novelist John Rechy, the late James Pickett, playwright and activist, and Henry Kisor of the Medill School of
Journalism at Northwestern University, for giving me the necessary tools and supplies for the journey. To my sister, Narissa Bond, who has held my hand since childhood, and whose inspired voice and music echoed through to my marrow, reminding me of timeless earth and the waiting horizon; and my big little brother, the indomitable Jay Harris, who survived the unsurvivable with such grace and dignity, that he strengthened my resolve to be alive. Who has always kept my feet buoyant and parted the thickest branches to let in the sun. To my dear Billy Wright, whose brilliant writing and wry Texas humor has kept me laughing for twenty-eight years, even through moonless nights. Whose face is, and always has been, family. To Jason Ellenburg for warming me with the irony of his art and ginger sweet potato mash. To the late Harryetta Peterka for infusing my heart with fearlessness so many years ago. To Peggy Medina and Judea Cavoto and the Blackbird Writing Collective for cradling my soul and reminding me of magic. To PEN USA for providing much needed support, and for creating a sacred circle of Fellows, including the late, great, Qevin Oji. To copy editors Carolyn Clark and Jan Simon for providing expertly crafted guideposts. Thanks to Greg Grant of the Piney Woods Native Plant Center for helping me to stop and gather dogwood and honeysuckle along the way. John Imig, Damon O’Neil and Jason Parker of Swork Coffee, for the life-sustaining elixir, and for allowing me to rest, type and weep for hours into months into years. To Lindale Banks and her great-grandmother’s healing hands. To Duvall Osteen, for skillfully scouting the path ahead, and reporting back, that I might not stumble along an unknown terrain, and Nora Evans-Reitz, for deciphering unbelievably cryptic codes and travel notes. An inexpressible gratitude to my late grandfather James Marshall, 16 deceased aunts and uncles
and a phalanx of ancestors for whispering hope through the roots and clay. To my talented father, the late Horace Bond, who taught me forgiveness. Special thanks to the courageous, lost children of Hollywood—those who ran away from monsters, hiding in shadows, and those who, sadly and unwittingly, ran towards them. Thanks to the many social workers and organizations who catch these brave, young people, when the bough breaks, including, but not limited to, Children of the Night and the Kruks/Tilsner Youth Shelter. My heartfelt, humble gratitude to my beloved and gallant partner La Tina Jackson, for teaching me about a phenomenon called gravity, for welding love to truth, and with heart-stopping wonder, always welcoming me, at long, long, last, home. To Avrie McKinley-Jackson for stoking the hearth fires. To Julie Curtis, Josh Raisin and Sonia Martinez, for standing vigil, teaching and cherishing my greatest treasure. Most of all, my deepest, forever thanks to my brilliant, beautiful and utterly hilarious daughter, Malia Jay Bond-Blanc, who came to me on the wings of a thousand prayers, who arrived in my arms, slippery and crying, and has in nine years, answered every single Mother’s wish, and others I could never have imagined. Whose shining face, dancing walk, and contemplative joy allowed every breath, every step, every single day.

C
YNTHIA
B
OND
has taught writing to homeless and at-risk youth throughout Los Angeles for more than fifteen years. She attended Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism, then moved to New York and attended the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. A PEN/Rosenthal Fellow, Bond founded the Blackbird Writing Collective in 2011. At present, Bond works as a writing consultant and teaches therapeutic writing at Paradigm Malibu Adolescent Treatment Center. A native of East Texas, she lives in Los Angeles with her daughter.