The Book of Ruth (28 page)

“Oh, sweetie,” I choked. “Oh, angel.”

Ruby sank back into the chair. He probably was crying too. I couldn’t see his face while he stared at the wall. The nurse cleaned up our baby, and then they brought it to me. I touched him and he looked at me with the darkest blue eyes; they were so blue, like the mill pond in spring.

“It’s our Justin,” I whispered, because that was the name I had chosen. He was something I had made from scratch. He was our Justin.

“Come see,” I said to Ruby, who was still having a catnap. When I spoke louder he pulled himself up and walked over on his tiptoes. He looked about the way he used to look when I tried to get him to reach under and grab a hen’s egg.

I kept saying our baby’s name time and time again—we were meeting for the first time in our lives. The nurse came and helped me put him on my nipple. He sucked so knowledgeably I had to boast right away about his appetite and his intelligence. He made little grunting noises, enjoying the very best food he had ever tasted.

I checked our baby, made sure he had ten toes. I couldn’t believe that he came out with eyebrows, and he could grimace and cry. He had wrists, thinner than electrician’s conduit, and perfect small hands, better than fresh rosy apricots. He looked exactly like Ruby. He was bound to be handsome.

Right away, when they wheeled me to my room, May came in. She wasn’t supposed to be there but she bulldozed over the nurses.

“Here’s your grandson, Ma,” I said. “Meet Justin.”

She petted his cheek. She didn’t say anything except “Bless you” to him, in a thin wavering voice, one I had never heard her use before. She couldn’t believe that here in the flesh was another chance for her; here was a baby coming to live and grow at her house. She was listening, already, to the stories Justy was going to tell about his grandmother, how she leaped up on the roof when the house was burning and pulled him from the fire.

J
USTY
was born with absolutely no baby spots. He came out complete and flawless. I’m not even prejudiced. The nurses said he was one of the most beautiful babies they had ever seen, and nurses have been around the block a few times. It was as if Ruby and I weren’t poor ugly people but, actually, in our blood and bones and seeds, royal monarchs. May kept saying, “It’s a miracle he’s so damn pretty.”

I was happiest when there was no one else in the hospital room, only Justy and his mother. He looked up at me with his wise blue eyes saying, “It’s all right now, I’m here.” J.C. was supposed to say those words when he was born, but I knew Jesus wasn’t any better than our Justin. He wasn’t any more of a holy big deal than our own baby. The three days in the hospital were the closest to heaven I’ll probably ever get: I loved filling in the menu chart, circling whatever I wanted to eat, and then they brought it, steaming and fragrant. They propped up my pillows so I could eat in bed. The nurses were always swooping in and out of the room like barn swallows, offering to give me the little baths that heal the wounds.

Ruby and Dee Dee came to visit me in the afternoons, and Ruby brought me beer because it’s supposed to be good for nursing mothers. It lets their milk come down. Dee Dee gave Ruby that information when she was guzzling a twelve-pack for old times’ sake. Ruby and I looked at Justy, that’s all we did; we couldn’t stop looking at him. Ruby flipped through the TV channels with the remote control panel he loved so much. He held Justy awkwardly, with his shoulders all hunched up, since he had never been around a newborn. And when Justy cried Ruby said, “OK, little baby, you want to go back to your ma-ma?” He said mama deliberately, as if he had just learned an exotic word. I beamed hearing him comfort Justin. He’d say, “There, don’t you cry now, here’s your ma-ma.”

And when I held Justy I could give him what he wanted. He usually stopped crying. I admired how I knew what to do without having to go to some school way down in Peoria to learn about it. When you’re a mother you know what your baby needs. Also, the nurses gave me, along with some other girls, classes about washing and changing your infant. Ruby thought I was the smartest person on earth, for jiggling Justy and making him quiet down, and talking sweetly in a high voice to him. He looked forlorn in his corner sometimes, when I was speaking to Justy. He’d pipe up and say that he couldn’t wait to get me home; he was going to eat me whole.

“It’s been a long time, baby,” he said. “I can’t wait until it ain’t like climbing a mountain to get on top of you.”

When he brought up that mountain-climbing topic I quick said I had to take a nap. I closed my eyes and prayed for divine interference to freeze Ruby’s appetite.

All my life, when we went to church, I didn’t listen hard to what the Rev said. I sat in the pew thinking about the dirt on people’s collars and the way their hair hit the back of their necks. But every now and then some of the Rev’s words blasted through. They sat in my ears for some reason and I had to perk up and think. Right after Justy was born I fidgeted in church until the Rev said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.”

The Rev no doubt had said those verses hundreds of times when I wasn’t paying attention, but for once I heard the words. I sat still in the pew, biting my lip, filling my head with the phrase “for they shall inherit the earth.” I didn’t know what that involved, precisely, or where you had to go to put in your claim—but I knew Justy had something to do with the deal, now that he was part of the earth, and I had made him myself. Justy would carry on from where I left off, and it was my body which gave him the life to do it, plus Ruby’s. I figured I was going to inherit the earth in a way I didn’t yet know about. I was in a special club because I had made a human being to do the work of man.

Ever since I was a little girl I only half believed in the fabrications the Rev preached. After Aunt Sid got me thinking about symbols I knew the baby Jesus never actually was born at Christmas. I figured the Rev was merely telling stories that were designed to make us behave. Still, there were the times when he said poems, like how the meek are blessed, and I fiercely wanted to believe the promises.

May went out and bought Justy a blue dress with smocking across the front for his baptism. It probably cost her a fortune, but money in this case was no object. She said we had to get Justy baptized because then he wouldn’t go to hell, guaranteed. There’s an old man in our church, Oscar Baily, who rants and raves about Jesus to anyone who will give him the ear. He was forever musing about the savages in the jungles around the world who’ve never heard of Christ. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for them because they don’t have anyone to tell them the Gospel. Finally, after several weeks of pondering, he decided there was comfort after all. He figured Jesus could eyeball each savage’s heart and say which one would accept him, if they knew about him, and that way certain Africans are surely saved. Oscar was telling me this opinion on the day Justy got baptized. He was giving the benefit of the doubt to the poor dumb savages. I forced a sweet smile while I held Justy in my arms so I’d look like the good mother. I wanted to tell Oscar he was full of it, that Jesus wasn’t anything more than a figment in his mind, and that savages were much better off without Jesus’ mumbo jumbo—for example, they didn’t have to fight wars to force their neighbors to go to church. I didn’t say boo, however. We had, only ten minutes before, stood up in front of the altar. I had held Justy while the Rev sprinkled water on his head and told us we were supposed to raise our son a Christian. I had nodded. There were only one hundred people watching: how was I going to inform the Rev that I didn’t believe in The Man?

The ladies at coffee hour afterwards said how beautiful Justy looked. It was true. He had lush dark hair and a delicate thin mouth and round blue eyes the size of half dollars, and a long nose, fit for the princes they have over in England. He crossed his eyes and then smiled, as if seeing us double was twice the pleasure.

For the first three months I was allowed to stay home with Justy. Artie said I wouldn’t lose my job, that it would be there when I was ready. He called to say that Trim ’N Tidy never won bowling games against the Red Bell Market, on account of I wasn’t there to score. I have to admit, I kind of missed seeing the team trophy Artie has on display at the cleaners. It’s the one we got after I did the miracle shot, the seven and ten split.

If I ever have the chance to go back and live my days over, the first months with Justy are the ones I’d choose. It was like real life, how I always imagined it was supposed to be. May went to work in the morning and then Mr. and Mrs. Dahl were adults keeping house, blasting the roof off with our furious vacuuming and our love songs. I kept asking myself, Am I a real live woman? Is my body actually making the milk in my breasts? Is this truly my husband who’s handing me the talcum powder so I can make our baby clean and dry? I asked questions constantly, to make sure it all wasn’t one magic cream puff.

After May was gone to work we cooked ourselves breakfast. Ruby fried the bacon because I always felt as if I could eat something fresh killed. I loved being so hungry and then hearing Justy cry and feeling the sting of the milk let down. Ruby said he wished he could get Coke from my nipples—he said then I could feed the neighborhood and we’d get rich.

When I was eating and Justy bawled, Ruby picked him up from his basket when I said, and handed him to me, and I’d feed him. Justy didn’t have any problem with his appetite. He sucked and grunted and smacked his lips. May said that I had it made, that Justy was an angel baby, so well behaved. I don’t think Justy’s good nature was all luck. Probably his parents had something to do with it. I see so clearly, as if it were an hour ago, Ruby washing up the dishes, just as I’d told him—he didn’t complain too long—and singing a tune to himself while our baby nursed. He made up songs for Justy, about how Justy was riding his horse across the range, how he was the biggest, smartest cowboy, killing off Indian tribes.

Then, after Justy ate, I gave him over to Ruby. I showed him patiently how to burp a baby, and he did the job very gently. He sang some more in his soprano voice, songs such as “Colorado Rocky Mountain High” and “Jet Plane.” Sometimes, after I healed, when I sat on the couch with our baby smiling up at me, Ruby came over and felt my breasts. He liked them gigantic. He petted my hair and face. He said certain equipment he had was swelling to the size of a fungo bat. He was missing me urgently. I had to laugh at my two babies; I had to glow triumphantly at how they were ravenous for my body. If Justy was sleeping I put him in his basket. Then Ruby and I climbed upstairs to our room and we shut the door.

I had enough company with my family. I didn’t have energy to spare. I didn’t want to go talk with other mothers in Stillwater. They have a group of people who nurse their babies. They get together twice a month to chew the fat, eat cupcakes, and brag about their children. All the mothers probably wear pink sweaters with their initials on them, made especially for oversize knockers. There was one lady, Donna, who kept calling to invite me to the parties. I always told her I was awfully busy in the home. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I felt happy in my own family.

Ruby and I took Justy on trips to the grocery store, to the Town Lanes, to the police station. We showed the officer our baby, and we couldn’t help saying with our whole selves, “Look at what we made, we finally came to some good, don’t you see?” And when we bought a few groceries I always liked exactly the things Ruby liked, no matter what. Ruby paid because he was the man of the family. When we came home we danced around with the exercise shows on TV, and if we had it up so loud Justy cried, Ruby took him in his arms and danced with him around the circle of the house.

In the evenings, after May got back, we were ready for a break. Justy always got cranky around five. May cradled him and crooned. She had to tell him about her day in a high squeaky voice while he stared at her and rolled his tongue around. He looked hard at her face, as if he was saying, “I know you’re not my parents, I know that much, you look so strange.” And Ruby and I sometimes said, if we could get a word in edgewise, “Hey, Ma, you want to watch Justy for a minute so we can feed the chickens?” She always said, “Sure I will, you run along.”

Here was something she could really be a star at, being an old grandma. It isn’t as hard as being a mother because you don’t have to be responsible. You simply watch someone else doing most of the work, and you give them suggestions, tell them what they’re doing wrong. May was sure Justy smiled at her first, but she didn’t know what she was talking about. I know for a fact that he grinned at me about a month before he even gave May the time of day.

So we went out into the winter evenings and collected eggs, and if time allowed we walked in the woods, all the while thinking about our Justin. We held hands, Ruby smoked a joint, and we told each other our thoughts, mainly, what we wanted our son to be like when he got older. Ruby said with them hunky shoulders he’d make a sensational quarterback. I said maybe Ruby could teach Justy to build houses, do work with his hands. Justy has long tapered fingers, like candlesticks, the shape of May’s before hers got twisted. They look like hands that could build sculptures or bridges. It burned me up that Ruby stopped making birdhouses. He stopped in his tracks when I mentioned the woodwork. It was still a sore spot with him—the way all those months before, May had called him a moron for building birdiehouses. We walked along silently, both of us thinking back to that night-mare when we walked into Hazel’s house and she gave me the snake.

In the middle of the night, when I was by myself feeding Justin, I had a few new thoughts. My ideas didn’t have anything to do with Jesus and savages, I can tell you that much. It came to me that we were nothing more than two human beings, Justin and I—he wasn’t so much younger than me, and I was helping him along in life, just as somebody else helped me a while back. We were all supposed to be humans helping each other.