Her eyes were suddenly full of tears and she blinked her way down a couple of steps and sat heavily, took her cigarettes and lighter out of her pocket.
For a moment, she was back outside another apartment building in another summer. She was sitting on the stoop, her hand cradling the swell of her stomach. The door opened and her husband was there beside her, crouching low. She turned to him, and he kissed her cheek, put his hand over hers, felt the baby kick.
“How you doing, honey?”
“I’m okay. Tired.” She stretched, yawned. She was always tired. It had been the same when she was carrying Frankie: the last two months, all she’d wanted to do was sleep.
He reached into his jacket pocket. “Got you a present.”
She took the small package, tugged at the paper. There was something soft inside: not jewelry, then. Maybe stockings? A nightdress?
It was a toy rabbit: soft plush fur, glassy eyes staring up at her.
“It’s for the baby.”
She nodded, struggled to her feet, saying something about dinner. Left the rabbit on the step, only noticing later that he’d brought it inside and put it in the nursery, up on the shelf where Frankie couldn’t grab it.
She wonders sometimes if that’s when she started to resent him.
On that last day it took her a moment to come back to herself. She blinked again, realized her cigarette had burned down to the filter. Stood and turned to go back inside, nodding toward Maria Burke’s window. The curtain twitched and Ruth smiled to herself.
Now, as she pushes the library cart from cell to cell, this is what she remembers. She remembers that she went back inside, into the kitchen, poured more coffee, looked at the kids over the rim of the cup.
Cindy was chewing on her cereal, her blue eyes on her brother. Frankie was staring down into his half-empty bowl, his face sullen, his lip sticking out. Just like his father.
She took another mouthful, asked, “Did you have fun with Daddy yesterday?”
They looked up at her. She could see they didn’t know what was the right thing to say.
“What did you do?”
Cindy dropped her spoon with a clatter. “He took us to his new house. It was nice.”
“Yeah? I didn’t know Daddy had moved out of Grandma’s place.”
She was surprised his mother had let him go again. Surprised he’d had the balls to do it.
She asked, “Does Daddy live by himself now?”
Cindy shook her head, her mouth full again. Ruth waited and it was Frankie who answered.
“He’s got a room in a big ol’ house. He shares a bathroom with three other men. An’ a kitchen. They got one cupboard each for their stuff. The cupboards have padlocks.”
She nodded, took another sip of her coffee to hide her broadening grin. How the hell did Frank expect to get custody when he didn’t even have a house for his kids? She put her cup down.
“Okay, Mommy doesn’t have to go to work today. What do you want to do?”
Cindy stopped chewing, her spoon dangling from her hand. Frankie looked up, sulk forgotten.
“Really?”
“Really. Do you want to go to the park?”
Cindy started to whoop, dropped her spoon again, did a wiggling dance in her chair.
“The park! The park!”
Frankie looked at Ruth from under his long eyelashes. “Can Daddy come too?”
There was a stillness, like breath drawn in. She took a last drag on her cigarette, turned away, and crushed it in a saucer. Still with her back to them, she said, “You saw Daddy yesterday, Frankie.”
She turned back. “Do you want to go to the park or not?”
Frankie nodded and Cindy beamed again. “Can I wear my dress with daisies, Mommy?”
She smiled at her daughter. Her easy, angelic daughter. “Sure. Finish your cereal and we’ll go get you washed and dressed. Frankie, you want to wear your Giants shirt?”
He shrugged, staring down at his bowl.
“Frankie, I asked you a question.”
“Yes, Mommy.” Still not looking up.
“Okay. Mommy’s going to finish getting ready. Frankie, put the dishes in the sink when you’re done, then you can watch cartoons with your sister.”
He nodded. She decided to let it go this time, took her coffee into the bathroom. Checked her face. Reapplied her lipstick.
She did not know that this was the last morning she would be able to do this freely. That it was the last morning her face would be hers alone.
2
It is easier to think of the rest of that day through the filter of her retelling.
She remembers a windowless room. Wooden chairs.
Then a click. The hiss of static. A man clearing his throat, giving the time and date.
And then the questions. Her hesitant, faltering replies.
“We went for a picnic in Kissena Park.”
“I guess . . . about two-thirty.”
“Uh . . . meatball subs and soda. Pepsi.”
“We drove there. The kids were in the front seat with me.”
Frankie, rushing down the slide toward her, bolt upright, legs out, chin up. Jumping off the end, running straight back up the steps. Cindy on one of the baby swings with the safety bars, despite her protests, because she always forgot to hold on.
“Higher, Mommy, higher!”