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By Root 385 0

of something for Ruth and Ray, or maybe it was the beginning of living with the truth, and this was when Ruth felt the smallest inkling of her first baby. She didn’t arrive with a vengeance, this baby that Ruth was certain was a girl, but with a blush of nausea, a hint of fatigue, the tiniest shift in perspective. And then she vanished, bled away in spots and smudges that Ruth bleached out in the bathroom sink while Ray slept in the next room. Then came the second and third. Something inside her, some glimmer of hope, sparked those babies that bled away like the first. Ruth knew that without hope, no more children would live or die, so she gave up on happiness and a future and that was the end of her babies—until now.

Chapter 11

Standing together in the small hallway between the kitchen and the back porch, Celia straightens Arthur’s collar and centers his newly polished belt buckle.

“That should do it,” she says, patting his chest with both hands.

“Do I have to go?”

Celia lifts up on her bare toes, kisses him once, but he pulls her back, and starts the kiss over. He smells like soap and the aftershave Celia insisted he splash on after she made him shave.

“Yes, you have to go,” she says, wiping away the pink smudge on his upper lip and giving him one more quick kiss before ducking and slipping from between his arms.

“I shouldn’t be leaving all of you alone.” Arthur looks into the living room where Ruth and Evie are thumbing through a photo album, a table lamp throwing a warm circle of light on them. “Where’s Daniel? He should be in here.”

“He’s outside,” Celia says. “Watering Olivia like you told him to. We’ll be fine, Arthur. Everything will be just fine.”

In the week since Celia told Arthur that Ruth is pregnant, he has begun locking doors, something he didn’t bother with once they left Detroit and the smell of burnt rubber behind. He comes home every day now over his lunch break, has fixed the locks on two windows, and has started barking at everyone in the house, except Ruth, about things like scooting in chairs and shutting off lights.

Celia takes his wool coat from the hook near the back door, and in a whisper that won’t carry to the living room, she says, “You go have fun. It’ll be nice that you and Jonathon spend some time together.”

“I see the boy damn near every day.”

“That may be, but you’re going all the same. Enjoy. You always fare well in poker. We’ll all be fine, just fine.”

“You lock up after I leave?”

“Good enough,” Celia says, kisses him one last time on the cheek and locks the door behind him.

Evie runs a hand over the patchwork quilt lying across her legs as Aunt Ruth points to a pink satin square.

“This was your Aunt Eve’s first Sunday dress,” she says. “And this piece is from your father’s favorite pair of jeans. He wore them until his belly was bursting through the buttons.”

Evie snuggles into Aunt Ruth, laughing at the thought of Daddy having such a big belly and searching for another quilt square that might belong to Aunt Eve. “What about this?” she asks, tracing a line around a lavender calico patch.

Aunt Ruth shakes her head. “That was mine. An apron from a doll I once had.”

Next, Evie points to a green velvet square, and as Aunt Ruth nods and smiles, Evie leans forward and brushes one cheek against the soft fabric. It doesn’t smell like Aunt Eve should smell, sweet like a flower, but instead like Grandma Reesa’s basement.

“Eve’s favorite Christmas dress,” Aunt Ruth says. “She tried to wear it to school once. Mother caught her at the back door because the hem stuck out from under her overcoat. My goodness, Mother was angry.” Aunt Ruth pulls a red leather photo album back onto her lap and flips through the early pages. “Here. Yes, here is a picture of that dress.”

Evie wraps the quilt around her shoulders like a cape and presses closer to Aunt Ruth’s side. “Do you think she looks like me?” Evie asks, staring down on a little girl standing on the steps of St. Anthony’s, the same steps where Evie plays every Sunday morning while Daddy and Mama say their hellos.

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