Then, as if Ma Pearl’s words finally registered, Papa asked Aunt Ruthie, “These chi’ren ett?”
Aunt Ruthie glanced at Ma Pearl, then at Papa. “They ett,” she said softly. “They ain’t hongry.”
Ma Pearl snorted. “I bet they ain’t.” She stepped aside as Fred Lee and I pried the children from the folds of Aunt Ruthie’s dress.
“Lord, my chile ain’t got a bit o’ sense,” Ma Pearl said, throwing her hands into the air. “Let’n that man beat the devil outta her.”
“That’s enough from you, Pearl,” Papa said. “This gal can’t help that man so hard. She here now. That’s all that matter.”
“Humph,” Ma Pearl said. “She been here befo’. She’ll go back soon that jackass show up saying he sorry.”
“I ain’t goin’ back” was the last thing I heard Aunt Ruthie say before Fred Lee and I ushered the children to the back. I prayed she was speaking the truth.
While Fred Lee and I got old quilts from the chest in Grandma Mandy’s room, surprisingly, Queen came in and calmed the children. All four of them huddled around her as she sat on the side of Grandma Mandy’s bed and held the baby. At that moment, as she rubbed their backs and whispered, “Hush now. It’s go’n be all right,” I almost liked her. I almost forgot how mean and ugly she could be most of the time.
By the time we got everyone settled—?the children resting on a pallet, Aunt Ruthie cleaned up and in the kitchen sharing a cup of coffee with Papa, Ma Pearl and Queen back to their radio show—?I headed to bed, as it seemed cruel to continue reading the funny pages when there was so much sadness in the house. As I passed through Fred Lee’s room and said good night to him, there was another knock at the door. My heart knew it was Slow John, and again it threatened to pound out of my chest.
As much as I wanted to run to my bed and hide my head under a pillow (actually I wanted to hide my whole body under the bed), my feet wouldn’t allow me. As if drawn by a force unknown, they turned and headed toward the front of the house.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
“Who there?” Papa asked. I’m sure he knew as well as we all did that it was Slow John.
“I came to git my wife,” Slow John bellowed from the other side of the door.
Papa didn’t open the door. He picked up his shotgun instead. “Go home and git some rest, John,” he called through the door. “Sleep off them spirits.”
“I ain’t drunk, old man,” Slow John answered. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere b’dout my wife.”
“Ruthie and the chi’ren stayin’ here tonight,” said Papa.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. “Open this do’, old man.”
“Git off my porch, John,” Papa said. “?’Fore I blast you off.”
From the other side of the door, Slow John let out a drunken laugh. “You won’t shoot me, you old fool.”
Papa cocked his shotgun. “I’ll shoot you and take your body to the sheriff myself. Even dig your grave if they ast me.”
For a moment, there was silence on the other side of the door, then the shuffling of feet. By the heaviness of his steps, I could tell that Slow John was wearing the steel-toe boots he’d used to whack Aunt Ruthie in the head.
Wump! Slow John kicked the door. “Come outta there, Ruthie, ’fo I come in there and git you,” he yelled.
Aunt Ruthie jumped. She had been leaning against the doorframe to Grandma Mandy’s bedroom, but now she stood, stiff-backed and trembling.
“My daughter ain’t leaving this house, so you might as well go home,” Papa said.
“She ain’t yo’ daughter no mo’, old man,” said Slow John. “She my wife.”
“Ruthie!” he called loudly. “I sorry. I sorry for what I done to you. I swear I ain’t go’n do it no mo’.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Got a new job, too, baby. Mr. Callahan said he give me work d’morrow. I told him, ‘Suh, I be there first thang in the moan’n. I couldn’t wait to git home and tell you ’bout it.” Another pause, then: “It broke my heart to find you gone.”
After a long silence, there was loud weeping on the other side of the door, then, “Ruthie, baby. Please. I loves you. I go’n kill myself if you don’t come back.”
The look on Aunt Ruthie’s face was hard to read. Her empty stare. Was it fear? Or pity?
“Ruthie,” Papa said, “you a grown woman. You make your own choices. You chose to marry that man. It’s your choice to go or stay. I can’t decide for you.”
Aunt Ruthie took a step toward the door.
“Dirn fool,” Ma Pearl hissed.
With a tremble in her voice, Aunt Ruthie called through the door. “I can’t wake up the chi’ren right now, John. I’ll be home in the morning.”
“I needs you home d’night.”
“In the morning,” Aunt Ruthie repeated. Her voice shook so badly that she could hardly speak. “You go on to the house and git some sleep,” she said to Slow John, staring sheepishly at Papa.