“Just browsing,” Ruth says.
The woman smiles, but she doesn’t leave. She trails us at a distance, like a child’s toy being dragged on a string. Ruth either doesn’t notice or doesn’t choose to notice. I suggest gloves or a nice winter scarf, but Ruth says her mother has one lucky scarf she’s owned forever, and she’d never trade up. Ruth keeps up a steady patter of conversation until we find a section of bargain basement DVDs. “This might be fun. I could do up a whole bunch of her favorite shows, and package them with microwave popcorn and call it movie night.” She begins sifting through the barrels of DVDs: Saved by the Bell. Full House. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
“Dawson’s Creek,” I say. “Man, does that take me back. I was absolutely going to grow up and marry Pacey.”
“Pacey? What kind of name is that?”
“Didn’t you ever watch it?”
Ruth shakes her head. “I’ve got about ten years on you. And if there was ever a white-girl show, this was it.”
I reach deep into the barrel and pull out a season of The Cosby Show. I think about showing it to Ruth, but then hide it underneath a box of The X-Files, because what if she thinks that the only reason I’m picking it is the color of their skin? But Ruth plucks it out of my hand. “Did you watch this when it was on TV?”
“Of course. Didn’t everyone?” I say.
“I guess that was the point. If you make the most functional family on TV a black one, maybe white folks won’t be quite as terrified.”
“Don’t know that I’d use the words Cosby and functional in the same sentence these days,” I muse, as the T.J.Maxx employee walks up to us again.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, getting annoyed. “We’ll let you know if we need help.”
Ruth decides on ER, because her mother has a crush on George Clooney, along with mittens that have real rabbit fur sewed along the edges. I pick up a pair of pajamas for Violet, and a pack of undershirts for Micah. When we walk up to the cash register, the manager follows us. I pay first, handing over my credit card to the cashier, and then wait for Ruth to finish her transaction.
“Do you have any ID?” the cashier asks. Ruth pulls out her license and Social Security card. The cashier looks at her, then at the picture on the license, and rings up the items.
As we are leaving the store, a security guard stops us. “Ma’am,” he says to Ruth, “can I see your receipt?”
I start to rummage in my bag so that he can check mine, too, but he waves me away. “You’re fine,” he says dismissively, and he turns his attention back to Ruth, matching the contents of the bag with what’s been rung up.
That’s when I realize that Ruth didn’t want me to come here with her because she needed help picking out a present for her mother.
Ruth wanted me to come here so that I could understand what it was like to be her.
The manager hovering, in case of shoplifting.
The wariness of the cashier.
The fact that out of a dozen people leaving T.J.Maxx at the same time, Ruth was the only one whose bag was checked.
I can feel my cheeks redden—embarrassed on Ruth’s behalf, embarrassed because I didn’t realize what was going on even as it was happening. When the security guard gives Ruth back the bag, we leave the store, running through the driving rain to my car.
Inside, we sit, out of breath and soaked. The rain is a sheet between us and the world. “I get it,” I say.
Ruth looks at me. “You haven’t even begun to get it,” she replies, not unkindly.
“But you didn’t say anything,” I point out. “Do you just get used to it?”
“I don’t imagine you ever get used to it. But you figure out how to let it go.”
I hear her words about Christina, echoing in my mind: She never learned any other way of being.
Our eyes meet. “True confession? The worst grade I got in college was for a course on black history. I was the only white girl in the seminar. I did fine on exams, but half of the grade was participation, and I never opened my mouth that semester, not once. I figured if I did, I’d say the wrong thing, or something stupid that made me sound prejudiced. But then I worried that all those other kids thought I didn’t give a damn about the subject because I never contributed to the discussion.”
Ruth is quiet for a moment. “True confession? The reason we don’t talk about race is because we do not speak a common language.”
We sit for a few moments, listening to the rain. “True confession? I never really liked The Cosby Show.”
“True confession?” Ruth grins. “Neither did I.”