They were nice kids, but they were overexcited that first day. Noise was beginning to bug me, so I decided to go out for a while. I remember I couldn’t find my keys, and I came back into the living room to see if they were in here—and that’s when I heard the voices.
I looked out and Ruth—I didn’t know she was Ruth then, of course—was sitting on the steps of the next building. She had a cigarette in her hand and she was leaning back and shading her eyes and right in front of her were Maria Burke and Carla. Carla Bonelli.
Carla was smiling and pointing up at her own window, then Ruth spoke. She had a husky voice, sorta throaty. I thought she was faking it at first, but she wasn’t. That’s how she spoke. It drives guys crazy.
She said, “Ruth Malone. We’re on the first floor. My husband and kids are inside.”
I swear Maria Burke’s the nosiest bitch in Queens. She actually turned around to stare at their car, then took a step to the side to see if she could see Frank. I looked at Ruth and saw her watching Maria—she had this little half-smile on her face, like she had the measure of her—and I remember thinking, “Ah, this one ain’t gonna make it easy.” Made me smile too.
Then Maria seemed to realize how it must look, and she stepped forward again and held out her hand like she was Jackie Kennedy and they were at a White House reception.
She said, “I’m Maria Burke. I live at number thirty-eight with my husband and my daughter.”
I don’t know how she does it, but she somehow manages to get a whole bunch of stuff into the way she talks. Like she can be telling you the weather forecast, but what you hear is I’m Maria Burke and my husband earns more than yours. Or We drive a more expensive car than you or My daughter attends a better school than yours. Poor kid. Sally Burke’s a sweetheart—she don’t deserve to have Maria for a mother. Mrs. B’s either hollering at her to finish her homework or boasting about her grades and her damn piano lessons.
Anyway, Ruth just looked at her and took a drag on her cigarette. You could tell Maria didn’t know what to do with that. She looked at Carla, and Carla looked back at her and they both seemed like they didn’t know what to do next.
Ruth sat there smoking, looking like she’d been on that stoop her whole life. She was wearing Capri pants and a shirt, I think. Heels. Her hair was done and I could tell all the way from my window that she was wearing makeup. And Maria and Carla were just in old housedresses. You met Maria? She has her hair in curlers overnight, then she pins it up in the same style she probably wore in high school. She told me once that she thinks too much makeup makes women look cheap. I just laughed. She was the prom queen in high school—she tells us that often enough—and she thinks that means she’s the expert on beauty advice. I want to tell her, “Maria, sweetheart, that was fifteen years ago!” but I’d never hear the end of it.
Carla was just doing what she always does—following Maria’s lead. Same kind of dress, same pattern on her apron, same damn lipstick color, probably. She’s nothing like Maria: she’s short and maybe carrying a little too much weight, and she’s got beautiful thick dark hair that won’t hold a curl, and thick eyebrows and a mole that she hates—but she don’t really care that much about how she looks. She just wants people to like her. When Ruth dropped her cigarette butt, Carla was right there with her pack, offering her another one.
And when she did that, Maria took a Kleenex out of her pocket and used it to pick up the damn butt off the ground. Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. She looked down her nose at Ruth like she was the queen of England and Ruth was some servant who didn’t know any better, and she said, “We like to keep the neighborhood tidy. Take a little pride.”
Ruth blushed but she still didn’t say anything. I saw her hand creep down to smooth her pants, but she stopped herself, and I wanted to cheer her on. She didn’t say a word, just smoked Carla’s cigarette and looked at the two of them. Maria Burke probably thought she was rude or ignorant and, knowing Ruth as I do now, that would’ve stung. But she sat there like she didn’t give a damn.
Eventually Carla said, “Well, we just wanted to say hello. Do you know this part of Queens?” And when Ruth shook her head, Carla chattered on about the grocery store and the children’s mobile library. She mentioned the church and she stopped then because she didn’t know where to go. Ruth looked down and I could see that little smile again, as if she was wondering whether to help her out.
Then she softened a little and said, “We’re Catholic,” and you could see the relief on Carla’s face.
She said, “Oh, then the church is just five blocks. St. Theresa’s is a very . . .”
Maybe Ruth thought she’d given up enough. She interrupted her and said, “We’re not big churchgoers.”