She nods.
“But I noticed him and started watching him. He wasn’t like anybody else and not just because he wasn’t white. He was thoughtful and quiet, and he’d read all the time, not for school but for fun. Mostly books about philosophy, or huge fantasy novels like The Lord of the Rings. So one day I went up to him when he was sitting on the bleachers reading during a pep rally, and we started talking.
“His name was Leon. He hated school like I did, but his method was more to just put his head down and get through it so he could make his parents proud. I really admired him. We couldn’t spend time together in school, because people would talk—but we started taking long walks, hanging out whenever we could. He encouraged me to pay more attention. He said I was smart and I could have an amazing life if I stopped trying to waste it. I think part of him was mad at me, probably—he had to work twice as hard to get to where he wanted to go, and here was this white girl, not even using her instant pass.
“People had said that to me ever since I started cutting class and skipping church, but I’d never listened because they were . . . well, horrible people.” Ruth chuckled. “But Leon didn’t mean it in a preachy way. He said it very matter-of-factly. And I thought about it. I started doing better in school. We fit together, in some odd way, after growing up not fitting anywhere else. His family had me over for dinner, and they were really sweet, totally accepted me at their dinner table with no questions or judgment. He mentioned once that he could marry whomever he chose. They just wanted him to be happy. Which, again, considering I’d had my mother buzzing in my ear this whole time about what God approved of and what He didn’t, seemed a whole lot more Christian to me than what I’d been raised to think like. So I really, really liked his parents, probably I was even a little jealous.
“One afternoon, some nosy woman from church saw us walking back from school and told my mother. When I got home, she screamed that if I wasn’t going to hell anyway for being disobedient and doubting the Lord’s way, I certainly would if I was splitting a chocolate malt with some black boy right under her and God’s nose. I said the Bible preaches tolerance, and quoted Ephesians 4:32: ‘Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.’ After that, she really went nuts. Beat the shit out of me.”
Ruth swigs her beer as I wait, spellbound. She has never told me a story this way, staring out at the lawn and speaking in a low, flat voice, like more of her energy is required to pull it out of her memory than to deliver it in an engaging way. I register distantly that my phone’s vibrating, but I don’t pick it up.
“But nobody could keep Leon and me apart, no matter how hard my mother beat me or how many rocks the kids at school threw at us when we’d leave together, him carrying my schoolbooks. We were inseparable. We graduated—him with honors, me just barely—and left town together. We never went back.”
She stops talking. My phone buzzes again. I don’t even look at it; I’m too enthralled. It sounds like a Nicholas Sparks movie, for God’s sake.
“And?” I urge her.
“What do you mean, and?”
“Like . . . did you fall in love? Get married? What happened?”
Ruth snorts. “Nothing!”
I must look incredibly confused because then she nearly doubles over, her thin frame shaking with laughter.
“Scarlett, I’m gay.”
I almost fall off the bench.
“What?!”
“Gosh, I thought it’s been obvious all these years. Did you not know?”
“No! I mean, it’s not a big deal, obviously. I’m just surprised because—I mean, that is an epic story! What’s the point of it all, then?!”
“The point is, the outcome’s not the point. We got out of our shitty town and went to New York together. We did everything we planned to do.”
I nod, feeling my eyes get embarrassingly misty.
She sighs, as if she thinks everything she’s about to say is something that’s going in one of my ears and out the other, and says, “The best parts of life aren’t clear-cut or obvious—they don’t have neat endings. I know it’s your inclination to skip to the end, but you can’t just focus on how it’s all gonna turn out.”
I nod.
“Anyway, he married a really amazing, funny woman he met in New York, and we stayed in touch until he passed away. I’m still in touch with his widow, although we’re both getting up there, and it’s harder to travel.” She glances upward for a second, and I wonder if she’s about to cry. Instead, she lets out a sharp little laugh and admits, “To be honest, I’m pretty tired of saying goodbye to people.”
I’m not sure how to respond. Finally, I ask, “How come you’re telling me all this now?”