Ruby

By Anna Esther Pearl

Ruby, a young woman growing up in the remote town of Big Chimney, in the deep woods of Virginia, faces challenges not common to someone her age. She is met with role reversals as her mother’s mental capacity shrinks and Ruby is bound to her care. She has the support of her Aunt Myrtle, elderly friend Ginny, a close-knit community, and a cowboy named Jason. This might be enough until Ruby is being visited by a fox who keeps to the edges of the woods and who fills her dreams.

This is a tale of love and the mysteries that weave the fabric of family, relationship, and our place in one another's lives. Follow Ruby as she navigates life under the impact of her mother's dementia, and blossoms, tended by those who care, and a fox who guides her beyond the present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543919189

Book preview

PART ONE

One

Well now, Ma, don’t you look perty in that lacy bra-hat. Ruby bent down and kissed her mother between the two fancy, red, B-cups on top of her head. Brought you a special treat, she said, straddling her bicycle. Her mother reached out both hands, and clapping excitedly asked, What ya bring me? What? What my treat? Ruby pulled a stick of licorice from the wicker basket between the handlebars and handed it to her mother, just as she did every single day when she got home from her shift at the diner. Oh, licorice! her mother exclaimed, jumping up from where she had been digging in the garden. I loves licorice, she cooed, grabbing it to herself, just as she did every single day when Ruby got home.

She been ta the garden mos’ all aft’noon, came a call from across the yard.

Oh, it looks like it . . . thanks, Auntie, Ruby answered the middle-aged woman standing behind an overgrown azalea bush at the margin of their yard. I see she made a new hat.

Yep, an’ sure ya know where she got it from, Auntie answered, with a full grin and a mischievous eye. It’s right perty but it ought ta be you wearin’ it so’s ta be seen.

Well, I wouldn’t be wearin’ it as a hat, that’s sure, Ruby teased back as she dismounted her bike and leaned it against the lattice at the front stoop of the trailer. Ma might as well wear it. I got nobody ta show it off to.

Left ya dinner on the stove, Ruby, came Auntie’s final message as she turned and walked away, toward the door of her own trailer, next door.

Ruby tapped her mother on the shoulder. Time ta go in, Ma, wash up fer dinner.

Dinner fer me?

Yes, dinner fer you. An’ fer me, answered Ruby, as she pulled her purse out of the bicycle basket. She took her mother’s arm and helped her up the steps. One, two, three, they counted together. One more, open the door, her mother caroled. You got it, Ma. Ruby smiled. Opening the door, a waft of rich beef stew, percolating on the stove, wound its way to them. Oh, smell that, Ma? Mmm-mmm. Auntie made us a stew.

Auntie made us a stew, her mother parroted.

Ruby helped her mother to the kitchen, where she took an apron from the hook beside the refrigerator. Ma, we’re gonna have ta take off yer hat, Ruby said, looking her mother directly in the eyes. Cain’t be havin’ ya eat dinner with a red, lacy, bra-hat on. Her mother reached up to hold it in place and Ruby worried there might be resistance. You can wear it again tomorra’ if ya like, she added, to appease her. Tomorra’, her mother said with a smile, and Ruby gently unfastened the bra from her mother’s head.

"Reach high, touch the sky, Ruby sang as she helped her mother raise her arms. Ruby put the apron over her mother’s head and let it hang down the front. There now, Ma. Yer all dressed fer dinner."

All dressed fer dinner, her mother repeated, grinning, while Ruby sat her down at the table in a dinette chair, tying the straps of the apron to its back.

Sit here, Ma, while I get dinner ready.

Ruby really wanted to head to her bedroom, toss her soiled waitress uniform and jump in the shower. She dreamed she could take as long as she wanted under the hot stream, washing her hair and scrubbing off the restaurant grime. She would gladly switch into clean sweatpants and a flannel shirt. Instead she washed her hands in the kitchen sink and splashed her face in the cool water.

Thank you, Auntie, she whispered, wiping her hands and face with a fresh, clean dishtowel. She glanced over to the laundry room and saw clean linens and clothing folded and piled on top of the dryer. Bless you, she added.

Let’s see, Ma. Need ta get ya cleaned up, first don’t we? Ruby purred as she used the same cloth on her mother’s face and hands. Clean an’ dry, Ruby said, gently patting a soft cloth to her mother’s upturned, smiling, face.

An’ I’ll give ya somethin’ ta do ta help me, Ruby said, sliding a loaf of fresh bread out from the breadbox on the counter. A crock of butter sat next to it and she took both to the table and set them before her mother, along with two small plates from the dish drainer. Here, Ma. Take two slices of bread. One, two, she said, counting them out to the plates. That’s right, Ma. Now, take this spreader, handing her a small wooden spatula, and spread the butter on the bread. While she left her mother with this basic challenge, she reached into the refrigerator, and from the produce bin, pulled a head of lettuce. There were two ripening tomatoes on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, and she grabbed one, its sun-lit warmth comfortable in her hand. Oh, Ma. Fresh tomato from yer garden. Yum.

Yum, her mother said behind her at the table. Ruby glanced back and her mother had slathered great heaps of butter on one of the slices of bread. Ruby stepped over to the table, taking the spatula. Great, Ma. Bread ‘n’ butter fer our stew. She took some from the mound and spread it on the second piece of bread. Fer our stew, her mother said, beaming up at her. Ruby gave her a peck-kiss on her forehead. Then, leaving a plate in front of her mother, and one at her place, removed the butter crock and went back to making the salad. She opened the cupboard where she and Auntie hid the knife, and with it secreted, cut the tomato, and nearly her finger as the phone rang.

Me. Me. Phone fer me, her mother chirruped. Yes, Ma. One second. Ruby pulled the blue phone receiver from the wall mount.

Hello. Yes, Auntie. Of course. Here, talk ta Ma, and she handed the phone to her mother, whose arms were stretched out trying to reach it.

Hello . . . Yes. Silence . . . More silence.

Ruby took dressing from the refrigerator, and pouring it over the salads in the two wooden bowls, listened. Still silence.

Say somethin’, Ma. Auntie is talkin’ to ya.

Still silence.

Ruby reached over and took the phone. It’s okay, Auntie. She’s not talkin’ right now. Yes. I can manage. Ruby looked over to see her mother eating her buttered slice of bread. Oh, an’ thanks fer the stew, an’ fer doin’ the laundry. Yes, bye.

Auntie was goin’ ta talk with ya, Ma. Ruby said, hanging up the phone. She walked over and took another slice of bread from the loaf.

Who’s Auntie? her mother asked.

Auntie, Ruby said. Your sister, Auntie. She always made sure to tell her mother, but she knew it was as much for herself, so that she would not forget. So that she would not lose track of who the important people were in her life. Her mother’s sister was her God-send.

Her name is Myrtle, Ma. But we call her Auntie. You an’ me.

Myrtle, her mother repeated matter-of-factly, as if it was the name of an object. Like it was the name of the phone, or a plate, or a piece of bread.

Yes, Myrtle, Ruby said, as she ladled two bowls of stew from the cast-iron kettle and took them to the table. Her mother was already eating the second slice of bread, the one meant for Ruby. Ruby sighed. The stew’s hot, Ma. We’ll give it a minute, as she slid it further away from her mothers reach. Eat yer salad first, she said, setting a wooden bowl in front of her mother. Salad, her mother said, and then using her fingers reached into the bowl for damp lettuce. Here, use a fork, Ruby proffered, lifting it to her mother’s fingers. Fork, her mother said. Just like she’d said Myrtle.

Ruby wasn’t feeling hungry but the beefy aroma was enticing and she knew it was made with great care. She was always grateful when her Auntie Myrtle made a dinner meant to last for days. She stared at her salad. She’d served so many sandwiches and soups and salads that day . . .

She watched her mother fumble with the fork and thought back to the people she’d seen in the hospital—people like her Ma, who weren’t able to eat by themselves anymore. That’s great, Ma. Yer doin’ a good job, she praised. Good job, her mother repeated between bites.

Ruby picked at her own greens, but simply ate the fresh tomato while waiting for the stew to cool. She watched as her mother chased a tomato slice around the inside of her bowl, and finally, in some recognizable wisdom, simply picked it up with her fingers and slid it into her mouth, the dressing slipping over her lips as she looked up at Ruby with a wide grin.

There ya go, Ma, Ruby offered. That was a slippery little tomato, wasn’t it?

Slip-pery to-ma-to, her mother said, her mouth full, juice and pearly seeds showing on her teeth. Who’s Vera? she asked.

What? Ruby sat back in her seat, and tilted her head, wondering where this question may have come from. Why, yer name is Vera, she answered her mother.

Yer name is vera, her mother said, her face bent low over the salad bowl, as she squished another tomato slice between her fingers.

Here, Ma, I think the stew is cooled. Ruby said, realizing it would be futile to pursue the subject further. She pushed one bowl of stew in front of her mother. And here’s yer favorite spoon, she added, as she dipped the sterling silver gravy ladle into the bowl. Even now Ruby smiled at the ingenuity of Myrtle finding it in an antique shop, and seeing it as the perfect utensil for her mother’s fumbling fingers.

Vera eats like a chil’, Myrtle had said. Needs ‘erself a spoon what can hold more ‘n what she spills out. It was a perfect solution, and both Ruby and Myrtle were relieved and pleased that Vera declared it her fave-rit.

Ruby savored the meal, even as she watched her mother slurp through the bowl of stew, still spilling a good bit on the apron bodice.

Messy me, her mother announced as she tried to rub off some of the contents now soaking into the fabric. Messy me, she repeated, laughing out loud. "Messy me, she sang. Messy me, Ruby joined in with her. Messy me, messy me, messy me, they both sang in perfect harmony. Messy me, messy me."

Dinner finished, Ruby rose and moved the dishes to the sink behind her. There now, she said, as she stepped behind her mother and untied the apron from the back of the chair. Vera raised her hands in the air as if on cue. Reach high, touch the sky, she crooned. Ruby leaned down and gave her a little hug, resting her cheek on her mother’s. Way high, you an’ I, Ruby echoed, as she curled the apron closed, and following her mother’s arms, lifted it over her head. She placed the crumpled apron on the table, and taking her mother’s arm, helped her out of the chair. Time fer a bath, Ma.

Ruby escorted her mother down the hallway to the bathroom door. She unlocked it, stepped in, and keeping a hold of her mother’s arm, closed the toilet seat. You sit here, on the throne, she coaxed. The thro-o-o-one . . . her mother started to sing, but ended up yawning.

Ruby did not miss that Auntie Myrtle had set fresh towels on the rim of the tub, the bath rug was already in place, and the tray holding a mesh scrubber, washcloth, shampoo, liquid bubble-bath, and two rubber ducks was handily set on the floor, in easy reach. Ruby started the water running to fill the tub. She squirted some bubble bath and dropped the ducks in, setting her mother to clapping her hands. She loved getting a bath.

Let’s get ya undressed, Ma, Ruby said, as she bent down in the tight quarters to remove her mother’s thick beige sneakers with the Velcro straps. She had thought them ugly when she gave in to Myrtle’s suggestion and ordered them from a catalog, but what a saving they proved to be in dressing and undressing her mother. "These ugly ol’ shoes, she sang to her mother. Ugly ol’ shoes, her mother sang in return. Good ta have these ugly ol’ shoes, Ruby continued the song. Good shoes, her mother shortened the phrase. They sang together as Ruby helped her out of her elastic-waist, faux-denim pants and the flowered blouse, faded now, that her mother wore constantly, only donning something else while it was being laundered. Once down to what Myrtle called only her privies," Ruby had her mother stand, and holding the installed railing next to the tub, helped her step in.

Ruby snickered at her mother’s delight in bathing. Vera loved blowing the bubbles off of her hands, nearly squealing as they took air. She loved putting her face down in the suds, as if they were clouds, to search for the ducks hidden within. Vera hummed and cooed and giggled while Ruby took great care in bathing her. Don’t need ta wash yer hair today, Ma, she said, when her mother started whisking water over her head. This time her mother did not seem to mind, and continued to play with the bubbles dwindling around her.

Finished, Ruby helped her out of the tub and draped her in the extra-large bath towel. They moved as one, Vera in her towel, Ruby in her wet clothes, across the hall to her mother’s bedroom. There Ruby sat her down on the chair next to the dresser, where she pulled out a pair of pajamas. Her mother hummed as Ruby dressed her and combed out her hair. There, Ma, look in the mirror, Ruby said, turning her mother to face it. See how perty ya look.

Per-ty, her mother crooned, running her fingers down the auburn waves.

You are perty, Ruby acknowledged. Wish I had yer perty hair. Ruby had always admired her mothers beautiful beige skin and voluptuous head of deep, rich brown hair. Ruby’s hair, though full and wavy, was strawberry-blond, from her absent father’s flaming-red side of the family. And her skin was mottled with a thousand freckles, all over.

She stood next to her mother, eyeing both of them in the mirror, and tried to remember when things were not reversed. When her mother had combed her hair in this very room, on this very chair, looking into this very mirror. When her mother had told her she was pretty, and given her a kiss on the cheek. With that she kissed her mother and smiled at the faces in the mirror.

It was Wednesday, so she escorted her mother back to the living room, on the other side of the kitchen, and settled her on the couch to watch her favorite TV show. "Time fer Friends, she said, fingering the remote to the channel. After this commercial, Ma," Ruby assured. Her mother folded her knees to her chest and pulled the lap blanket, knitted by Myrtle, tightly around herself, and waited eagerly. There came the title—super-imposed letters separated by colorful dots, in front of a city skyline. Promptly the youthful actors, perch on a sofa, flip open their umbrellas to the chirpy, fast-paced music, then bounce up to dance in front of a fountain in the dark. It was a mystery to Ruby that this syndicated sitcom—quick, urban, modern—caught her mother’s fancy, but it certainly did. Her mother joined in the clapping as the theme song played to the actors in differing antics, their names spread across the screen. Vera sang the perky theme song along with them—proof that she was completely engrossed in the show and Ruby could go take care of the dishes.

She patted her mother on the top of her head. Enjoy, Ma. I’ll see ta the dishes. Vera was swinging her shoulders to the music, nearly dancing in her seat as Ruby, herself caught in the lively beat, sashayed toward the kitchen sink.

Ruby kept an ear to her mother as she cleared the table, put away the food and washed the dishes. She was almost done by the first break and stepped to the couch to see her mother, who, bored with a Ford truck commercial, was pulling threads from the hand-made blanket. Ma, Ruby said, looking to distract her, would ya like a cookie?

Cookie, her mother beamed up at Ruby, her fingers stopped.

"I’ll get ya one," Ruby said, as she retraced her steps to the kitchen.

"Cookie, cookie," she heard her mother singing.

There were still some cookies left in the old blue jar, now hidden in a cupboard, out of reach behind the cereal, instead of on the counter where her mother had always kept it. Ruby remembered how her mother had kept the jar full, offering her a baked snack when she came home from school each day. "Cookie’s comin’," she sang back to her mother.

"Cookie’s comin’, cookie’s comin’, cookie’s comin’," her mother sang.

By the time Ruby reached her, the show was back on, and her mother was entranced once again. Ruby sat down next to her and gave her a cookie as she took a bite of one herself. She watched with her mother until the next commercial, trying to weave the wayward thread without her mother’s notice. By the end of the show Ruby had it tied and knotted, matching the many other knots now part of the blanket.

Shall I read to ya, tonight? she asked her mother, even though she read to her every night. Still, she always asked. For her it seemed right. It seemed necessary. Ruby felt like she was honoring her mother, not assuming she would always want the same thing, every day, day after day.

Read ta me, her mother answered with an expression of rapt attention, like it was a new and novel idea. It was another mystery to Ruby, how things could remain new and fresh to her mother’s mind. This she tried to incorporate into her own perspectives on life. Each day new. Each encounter, each situation, each event, even each person—all new. There was a kind of wisdom to this philosophy, though for her mother it was not really a philosophy so much as a child-like mentality, growing backward from adulthood.

While Ruby rose to get the current book, Anne of Green Gables—the same well-worn volume her mother had read to her as a girl—her mother stretched out on the couch, drawing the blanket up tightly to her chin. Ruby tucked her in, all along the sides, the length of her body, like a mummy, and then sat in the recliner, found her bookmarked page and began reading.

Even as she read the familiar words, she considered, in her own mind, how much her life had changed. When she was a young girl, not so very long ago, this story had held such a different fascination. She was the one being read to. She was the one who was the child. She was the one with possibility and future. Her mother would tuck her in, or bundle her up in a blanket. Now she read the same book over and over, keeping the peace, otherwise her mother might not be able to follow, might get upset, might cry or balk or get agitated—standing up, flaying her arms. No, Ruby continued to learn what would keep her mother soothed and comfortable. At least for now. So, she read on, the same words, glancing over periodically to see her mother’s fingers dancing in the air; a sure indicator of her relaxed state, and relaxed states were important.

Chapter end, Ruby said, so that her mother would know that the reading was finished, then they would move on to preparing for bed.

Chapter end, her mother repeated, though she did not move from her spot under the blanket.

Ruby closed the book, marking the page with the feather given to her by her Auntie Myrtle. Keep yer mind ta thinkin’ on lofty thoughts . . . Auntie had said. Sometime ya might ta fly like a bird, even while yer readin’ these same ol’ words. Ruby peered over to her mother, lying quietly, her fingers flitting through the air above her, like her hands were little wrens. With a deep sigh Ruby rested the book on the table beside her. She was feeling the length of the day. She was tired and looking forward to the quiet of the evening that would be for her alone.

Time fer bed, Ma.

Her mother stilled her fingers and tilted her head back to look at Ruby. She was smiling. She stretched her arms out and then reclaimed the top of the blanket, and folding it away from herself, sat up. She’d eaten, bathed, was in her jammies, had seen her TV show, listened to the chapter, now she waited for Ruby’s next prompt.

Ruby stood, and taking her mother’s hands, helped her rise from the couch, her mother humming some tune all the while. They walked hand-in-hand down the hallway again. Do ya need ta pee? Ruby asked. Her mother sailed past the bathroom door with no answer. Well, okay, Ruby said, we’ll go right ta bed. She followed her mother into her bedroom. Right ta bed, Vera whispered.

In Vera’s room, which used to be Ruby’s—another reversal in their life order—Ruby sat her mother down on the same chair she’d used to comb her hair. Lemme get the bed ready, she said, folding the sheet and quilt back. The quilt was one their dear friend, and neighbor, Ginny, had made some years back when she found out Vera was suffering from dementia. Ginny, alone after raising her granddaughter, June, who had joined the Army and gone off to Afghanistan, had come to visit at the trailer when they were trading rooms, moving Vera to Ruby’s smaller room, its twin-bed sheets much more easily laundered after accidents. This what ta be ‘er spe-shul quilt, Ginny had said.

Okay, Ma, Ruby said, as she helped her mother to the bed. Let’s get ya tucked in. Once under the covers, Ruby sat down next to her. Ma, remember when yer friend Ginny made ya this quilt? she asked, as she laid it over her mother. Vera did not answer, but looked at her, smiling. Ruby could see she was tired, but continued. Ginny made this nice quilt fer ya, Ma. Made it all by hand, she said, as she fingered the stitching between blocks of differing yellow fabrics. See, Ma, ‘member this flowered square is from that dress you made fer me when I was a little girl. Vera simply held her smile. And, this square here, Ruby said, pointing to another block, this was from yer apron.

She did not add that it was the apron that had caught fire when her mother watched a candle flame light its belt end, thinking it was pretty. Myrtle had been there for that incident. It had been a pivotal moment in recognizing the kind of care Vera needed. Ruby remembered her mother wearing that favorite apron often as she made breakfast, or baked cookies, or peeled potatoes. She also remembered Myrtle crying when telling her about the candle. Stood there an’ stuck the strap inta the flame, smilin’ away, like it was some fun.

Ma, do ya remember Ginny? Ruby asked, fingering the tiny embroidered fox on the top edge of the quilt. Do ya remember Ginny tellin’ ya ‘bout the fox? Her mother closed her eyes, and that was the answer. Good night, Ma, Ruby said, bending and laying a soft kiss on each sealed eye.

Ruby stood, looking down at her mother sleeping like a baby, and felt her own body grow weary. She left the room, closed the door, and checked the bell tied around the knob. Now it was her turn. Time for herself.

The steam, filling the entire bathroom, was a welcome balm. Ruby, lathered up, lay back in the tub and closed her eyes as the suds, soft and slippery, surrounded her face, only her nostrils above the water line. Breathing deeply, she felt her body sink. It was the tiniest piece of heaven. She basked in the warmth, the buoyancy, the freedom, found in that moment in the bath tub. Thank you, she whispered out loud.

These were the times when Ruby was glad for the people in her life, whether it was her Aunt Myrtle, helping her daily in the care of her mother, or those characters in the books she was reading, or the positive messages from bookmarked websites on-line, or the kind words from people in town who knew of her life with her mother. But in this moment she could be thankful, too, for the simple pleasure of her own body, youthful and vigorous.

She mused on the new bra she’d chosen from a catalog, and giggled that her mother had found it, and, in turn, considered it a fashionable hat. Good one, Ma, she thought to herself.

It had been a splurge, an impulse buy. It was red, it was lacy, it was something she would never have gotten for herself. She’d found the catalog, one she hadn’t known existed, in the pile of magazines left on the front porch of the library, the next town over. People often left copies of their used magazines for others to take. She had been thumbing through it while she waited for the library doors to open for the day. It jumped from the page, that bra. She had blushed at wanting it, but added the magazine to the books she checked out, and took it home.

In the privacy of her room she had revisited the page. Yep. That bra still coaxed, it still spoke some secret language, telling Ruby she must have it. For over a week it sat at her bedside, among her other reading materials and journals. For a week it taunted her. For a week she fingered it on the page as if she could feel the sheer fabric, the raised lace, the satin straps. For a week she told herself how silly it was to even consider it. For all those days she played with the idea of wearing it. She stood naked in front of the wall of mirror in the master bath, in what used to be her mother’s room, and imagined how she might look in it. For all that time she wrestled with the absurdity of such a frivolous purchase for herself. It wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t practical even. But she wanted it. In some far corner of her youthful mind she pined for that silly red lace bra.

Then, in a moment of more mature common sense, she took the catalog, the page opened with the bra circled, and dumped it in the trash can. Only to retrieve it some days later, and in a different moment of defiant girlish desire, to order it over the telephone.

It had been delivered to the house while she was at work. UPS come by with a box, her Auntie Myrtle had announced when Ruby rode into the yard at the end of the day. Yer ma beside ‘erself fer wantin’ ta know what’s in it.

Jus’ Ma? Ruby had asked with a sly smile, or you wonderin’ what I might ta ordered?

Ain’t ta be my biz-ness, Myrtle said, in a fluster, but sure I’ll be glad ta see what it is, if yer inclined ta wanna share.

By then Vera had arrived from behind the garden, the box in her hands, and both Ruby and Myrtle could see that the top was partly pulled open. Box come. Box come, Vera had announced with a grin as wide as her cheeks. Looky, box come, and she raised it up to Ruby, almost dancing with excitement. Open it, open it, she pleaded.

That box is fer Ruby, Myrtle had told Vera.

Fer Ruby. Open it. Open it. Vera had chortled.

Okay, okay, Ruby had said, taking the box from her mother. Ma, you almos’ got it open already, she said, as she finished breaking the seal across the top. Under a layer of tissue paper, was a small red item, sealed in a clear plastic envelope. Ooooh, oooh, her mother cooed, as Ruby lifted it out, setting the box in the basket of the bicycle she was still straddling. Oooh, oooh, her mother continued, wringing her hands. Ruby untaped the plastic and lifted, by the two satin straps, the flimsy, flirty, red lace bra. She held it up for her mother to inspect, and she and Myrtle watched as Vera started excitedly bouncing in place and clapping her hands. It was obvious she had no idea what it was, but it was new and red and fancy and it came in a box.

Right perty, Myrtle had said, winking.

Ruby, smiling, admired it, pleased that it was so nice. Her mother reached for it, but Myrtle caught her hand, and said to Ruby, Let’s see ya model it.

Model it, model it, Vera began singing.

Not gonna model it, Ruby quickly responded.

Model it, model it, Vera continued over and over.

Come now, let’s ta see it on ya, Myrtle said to Ruby.

Ruby, seeing she was not going to be left alone, put her arms through the satin straps and pulled the bra to her chest, over her diner uniform. Oooh, perty, sang Vera. Perty, perty, and they all had laughed and laughed in the yard. Eventually Vera had wandered off with the cardboard box, totally entertained with its left-over contents of paper and plastic.

Ruby, relaxed in the soothing water, smiled again, remembering. She had not as yet worn the bra. She had placed it in her underwear drawer, where her mother must have found it and decided it made for a suitable hat. And indeed it did.

Once bathed, Ruby, nekkid as a jailbird, as her mother used to say, walked easily from her room at the far end of the trailer, back toward the kitchen at the front. Passing her mother’s room, she stopped, and her ear against the closed door, listened. Sometimes her mother talked in her sleep, sometimes she sang, and sometimes she rose and wandered, but that was usually in the very early morning hours, when Ruby was sure to be asleep. Hearing nothing she continued to the kitchen, where she set the teapot on the stove for her evening herbal.

Ruby loved to walk around naked. Always had. Her mother had been fine with it, when, as a child, Ruby skipped and jumped and danced and played from one end of the trailer to the other with not a stitch on. Even as a teenager, with her buds a sproutin’, Ruby had roamed the trailer in the raw, doing homework, tending to her chores, listening to music. She loved the feel of the air on her skin and the freedom of no garments restricting her. She waited now though, for the evenings, when her mother was taken care of and put to bed, to savor the joy of being unclothed.

Standing in front of the stove she gently positioned her body in Mountain Pose. Tadasana, she said aloud, paying attention to each place in her body, as she had been learning in her on-line yoga practice. Once in alignment she raised her arms over her head. Urdhva hastasana, she pronounced, feeling the stretch she considered delicious. She arched side-to-side extending her reach as the water came to a boil, and with perfect timing, came to center with the whistle of the teapot.

Her favorite brew in hand, the steam rising with a hint of ginger, she headed back toward her room, checking at her mother’s door again on the way. Ruby’s bedroom, having been her mother’s master-suite, was gloriously roomy. She had switched to a twin-size bed mattress, set against the wall lengthwise, like a futon couch, which gave her plenty of floor space for doing her newly implemented yoga practice. She had set up a corner of the room with a comfortable chair and overhead reading lamp. By the window she had a small wooden desk and a bookcase made of colorful lettuce crates from the diner, draped with a favorite paisley shawl. On the desk she kept a jade plant, given to her by her aunt. Fancy plant fer yer fancy new room, Myrtle had whispered while crushing Ruby in a bear hug. Its waxy dark green leaves, rounded and exotic, were graceful next to the rough-hewn wooden horse from Jason, who had a ranch she and her mother went to on Saturdays.

Ruby hadn’t thought to change rooms with her mother; that had been Myrtle’s idea. Myrtle was brilliant that way—seeing ways to change the order in life. Yer ma ta do some better ‘n the smaller room, she had said. Save me washin’ them big ol’ sheets, too, she had added, referencing