before: Ruby believes. She believes in magic, even if it is armpit magic.
“Wow. How does—”
“Miss Mouse, I got to get home, give my husband his supper.” Ruby steps out of her uniform, hangs it on a hanger, then puts on her blue skirt and a cotton blouse.
Mary Louise looks down at the floor. “Okay,” she says.
“It’s not the end of the world, sugar.” Ruby pats Mary Louise on the back of the head, then sits down and puts on her flat black shoes. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I got a big pile of laundry to do. You think you might come down here, keep me company? I think I can tell a story and sort the laundry at the same time.” She puts on her outdoor coat, a nubby, burnt-orange wool with chipped gold buttons and big square pockets, and ties a scarf around her chin.
“Will you tell me a story about the magic bag?” Mary Louise asks. This time she looks at Ruby and smiles.
“I think I can do that. Gives us both somethin to look forward to. Now scoot on out of here. I gotta turn off the light.” She picks up her brown paper sack and pulls the string that hangs down over the ironing board. The light bulb goes out, and the basement is dark except for the twilight filtering in through the high single window. Ruby opens the outside door to the concrete stairs that lead up to the driveway. The air is warmer than the basement.
“Nitey, nite, Miss Mouse,” she says, and goes outside.
“G’night Ruby,” says Mary Louise, and goes upstairs.
When Ruby goes to vacuum the rug in the guest bedroom on Thursday morning, she finds Mary Louise sitting in the window seat, staring out the window.
“Mornin, Miss Mouse. You didn’t come down and say hello.”
Mary Louise does not answer. She does not even turn around. Ruby pushes the lever on the vacuum and stands it upright, dropping the gray fabric cord she has wrapped around her hand. She walks over to the silent child. “Miss Mouse? Somethin wrong?”
Mary Louise looks up. Her eyes are cold. “Last night I was in bed, reading. Kitty came home. She was in a really bad mood. She told me I read too much and I’ll just ruin my eyes—more—reading in bed. She took my book and told me she was going to throw it in the ’cinerator and burn it up.” She delivers the words in staccato anger, through clenched teeth.
“She just bein mean to you, sugar.” Ruby shakes her head. “She tryin to scare you, but she won’t really do that.”
“But she did !” Mary Louise reaches behind her and holds up her fairy tale book. The picture on the cover is soot-stained, the shiny coating blistered. The gilded edges of the pages are charred and the corners are gone.
“Lord, child, where’d you find that?”
“In the ’cinerator, out back. Where she said. I can still read most of the stories, but it makes my hands all dirty.” She holds up her hands, showing her sooty palms.
Ruby shakes her head again. She says, more to herself than to Mary Louise, “I burnt the trash after lunch yesterday. Must of just been coals, come last night.”
Mary Louise looks at the ruined book in her lap, then up at Ruby. “It was my favorite book. Why’d she do that?” A tear runs down her cheek.
Ruby sits down on the window seat. “I don’t know, Miss Mouse,” she says. “I truly don’t. Maybe she mad that your daddy gone down to Florida, leave her behind. Some folks, when they’re mad, they just gotta whup on somebody, even if it’s a little bitty six-year-old child. They whup on somebody else, they forget their own hurts for a while.”
“You’re bigger than her,” says Mary Louise, snuffling. “You could—whup— her back. You could tell her that it was bad and wrong what she did.”
Ruby shakes her head. “I’m real sorry, Miss Mouse,” she says quietly, “But I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause she the boss in this house, and if I say anythin crosswise to Miz Kitty, her own queen self, she gonna fire me same as she fire all them other
“Wow. How does—”
“Miss Mouse, I got to get home, give my husband his supper.” Ruby steps out of her uniform, hangs it on a hanger, then puts on her blue skirt and a cotton blouse.
Mary Louise looks down at the floor. “Okay,” she says.
“It’s not the end of the world, sugar.” Ruby pats Mary Louise on the back of the head, then sits down and puts on her flat black shoes. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I got a big pile of laundry to do. You think you might come down here, keep me company? I think I can tell a story and sort the laundry at the same time.” She puts on her outdoor coat, a nubby, burnt-orange wool with chipped gold buttons and big square pockets, and ties a scarf around her chin.
“Will you tell me a story about the magic bag?” Mary Louise asks. This time she looks at Ruby and smiles.
“I think I can do that. Gives us both somethin to look forward to. Now scoot on out of here. I gotta turn off the light.” She picks up her brown paper sack and pulls the string that hangs down over the ironing board. The light bulb goes out, and the basement is dark except for the twilight filtering in through the high single window. Ruby opens the outside door to the concrete stairs that lead up to the driveway. The air is warmer than the basement.
“Nitey, nite, Miss Mouse,” she says, and goes outside.
“G’night Ruby,” says Mary Louise, and goes upstairs.
When Ruby goes to vacuum the rug in the guest bedroom on Thursday morning, she finds Mary Louise sitting in the window seat, staring out the window.
“Mornin, Miss Mouse. You didn’t come down and say hello.”
Mary Louise does not answer. She does not even turn around. Ruby pushes the lever on the vacuum and stands it upright, dropping the gray fabric cord she has wrapped around her hand. She walks over to the silent child. “Miss Mouse? Somethin wrong?”
Mary Louise looks up. Her eyes are cold. “Last night I was in bed, reading. Kitty came home. She was in a really bad mood. She told me I read too much and I’ll just ruin my eyes—more—reading in bed. She took my book and told me she was going to throw it in the ’cinerator and burn it up.” She delivers the words in staccato anger, through clenched teeth.
“She just bein mean to you, sugar.” Ruby shakes her head. “She tryin to scare you, but she won’t really do that.”
“But she did !” Mary Louise reaches behind her and holds up her fairy tale book. The picture on the cover is soot-stained, the shiny coating blistered. The gilded edges of the pages are charred and the corners are gone.
“Lord, child, where’d you find that?”
“In the ’cinerator, out back. Where she said. I can still read most of the stories, but it makes my hands all dirty.” She holds up her hands, showing her sooty palms.
Ruby shakes her head again. She says, more to herself than to Mary Louise, “I burnt the trash after lunch yesterday. Must of just been coals, come last night.”
Mary Louise looks at the ruined book in her lap, then up at Ruby. “It was my favorite book. Why’d she do that?” A tear runs down her cheek.
Ruby sits down on the window seat. “I don’t know, Miss Mouse,” she says. “I truly don’t. Maybe she mad that your daddy gone down to Florida, leave her behind. Some folks, when they’re mad, they just gotta whup on somebody, even if it’s a little bitty six-year-old child. They whup on somebody else, they forget their own hurts for a while.”
“You’re bigger than her,” says Mary Louise, snuffling. “You could—whup— her back. You could tell her that it was bad and wrong what she did.”
Ruby shakes her head. “I’m real sorry, Miss Mouse,” she says quietly, “But I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause she the boss in this house, and if I say anythin crosswise to Miz Kitty, her own queen self, she gonna fire me same as she fire all them other
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