“Their history?” Ruby had said, addled, confused, and quite cross. “What history?”
“When the two were boys there was some … experimenting.”
“Good-bye forever, Harriet Rutter,” Ruby had said before throwing down the phone. “Don’t contact me again.”
That was the end of their conversation, and their friendship. Ruby hadn’t wanted to hear that word. Experiment. After all, her husband’s medical records contained it, too. Sam was not queer by nature but an “experimenter” by circumstance. A “casual homosexual,” if you will.
“Subject is interested in women and has enjoyed a normal heterosexual life,” his file also stated, notes taken after a weeklong observation by a Red Cross nurse. “Not thought to be a confirmed pervert. Readily passed the gag reflex test, demonstrating infrequent fellatio. Official diagnosis of a psychoneurotic rather than sexual psychopath. Recommend to the board he return to duty.”
And the board agreed. Stamp, stamp, stamp. A signature or two and Sam was cleared for reassignment, cleared for battle.
“Congratulations,” the doctor had said when calling with the “good news” about tongue depressors and casual sodomy. “I hope you can both move on from here. I happen to believe that as with any other sick person, these types deserve compassion, not condemnation.”
Ruby should’ve listened to Mary and never gone to Portsmouth to meddle in Sam’s health. It was seeing Sam and talking to that smug doctor that sent Ruby back to Cliff House and into Topper’s desk.
Why’d she send those photographs to Hattie anyway? Did Ruby really need to dig that deep? No, she did not, and the universe punished her greatly for it. Hattie did more than study the pictures. She assessed them, wrote about them, and then put them out for the world to see. Professional advancement, at Topper and Sam’s expense. The photographs showed no faces, but to Ruby it was an utmost betrayal.
The doctor told them to move on, and Ruby was doing precisely that. Nothing that happened on the ship was relevant anymore. The same went for whatever occurred among puckish and exploratory boys. All that was to say: Hattie Rutter was welcome to buzz off.
“Ruby!” Hattie screamed from the Cliff House drive. “Let me in!”
Ruby backed away from the window just as Miss Mayhew approached. How much Hattie might reveal to her, Ruby couldn’t guess. Harriet Rutter’s wild unpredictability was a lot more of a gas two summers before, when the world wasn’t shot to hell. Thank goodness Miss Mayhew didn’t run in their same circles and, having been a maid, she was already trained in discretion.
Well, Ruby couldn’t worry about any of that now.
Hattie would tell her, or she wouldn’t. Miss Mayhew would be surprised, or she wouldn’t. Whatever the case, it was time to push forward, pick out the good scraps from the rubble and the mess. And so with fire and determination, Ruby slammed the window shut and turned away from Hattie, for once and for all.
*
The victory garden was coming along peachy keen.
There were no actual peaches but instead a smattering of vegetables, a right spiffy throng of tomatoes, carrots, Swiss chard, and beets. Ruby was surprised to find she’d inherited Sarah’s green thumb, though she did have to knock out most of Mother’s bluebells to make the room. “Deflowering for victory!” Ruby might’ve called it. No small number of lads would champion a sentiment like that.
“The garden looks spectacular,” one Coffin sister said.
Ruby could never remember their names. It was this sister or that, the turnip or the celery stalk. The Coffins, they weren’t so bad, but they did make Ruby pine for Mary’s sparky beat. Yes, Mary’s. The sisters were dull as wartime toast.
“Why, thank you,” Ruby said, and swiped the dirt off her dungarees.
Ruby had been putting her all into that garden, her heart and her soul. There’d been too much destruction and she wanted to make the world beautiful once more. Being the number one vegetable producer on Sconset was an added kick.
“I must give credit to my sister-in-law,” Ruby added. “For starting it before she left.”
“Nonsense!” the Turnip said. “It’s grown tenfold since then.”
“Well.” Ruby blushed. “With lots of help. That was an aces tip about the chard. It grows like a weed! The other veggies are doing mighty fine as well. I have quite the load for today.”
Ruby planned to bike the spoils of her bounty into town later. Her production was impressive, yes, but all across Nantucket the victory gardens were exploding with produce. Come hell or high water, there’d be no food shortage there.
“I think you can supply the entire island’s restaurants in one go,” said the other Coffin, the Celery Stalk.
Ruby smiled. It was plumb dandy to be in on the effort, as much as she joked about the “for victory” rallying cry. Perhaps there was something more to Mary’s nursing aspirations than her enthusiasm for ordering people around in an official capacity. Just like Mary said, contributing to the war effort was more fulfilling than playing tennis or honing one’s golf swing. A gadabout’s life now seemed grossly out of style.
“Is everything arranged for Saturday night?” Ruby asked as she began filling her basket with produce. “Any new jackpots?”
She and the Coffins had spent the last three weeks organizing a “Sell for Uncle Sam” initiative to take place at the casino that very weekend. It was a “Hard-to-Get Auction,” with folks donating all the most prized rationed items, like nylons, coffee, tires, and sugar. The proceeds would go to purchase war bonds, and for one glorious night, no one would have to worry about busting a price ceiling or buying more than her fair share. For her part, Ruby had her peepers on some rubber-soled shoes. Shop for victory!
“We got ahold of one typewriter,” the Turnip said. “Hardly used.”
“Ohhh, we’ll raise some nice dough for that,” Ruby said. “I can’t wait. I think even Daddy will make the trip out.”
She’d also invited Mary, who responded with regret, unable to justify the odyssey from Washington. She promised to buy some war stamps in Ruby’s honor, which was a nice gesture, though Ruby would’ve preferred the person. She’d forgiven Mary for not coming with her to Sam’s bedside, an understandable refusal in retrospect. They had an unspoken agreement to never address it again.
“That’s swell news about your Pops,” the Celery Stalk said.
Ruby nodded and hoisted a basket of greens onto her right hip. Suddenly a stomach stitch overwhelmed her. She took in several deep breaths to chase it away. It was only her tummy pulling and stretching. Nothing to worry about, just a new baby freshly on its way. Sam had been home but two weeks and this turn of events said far more about him as a man than any medical records or stints in a mental ward. He’d done a man’s job. As far as Ruby was concerned, on that ugly matter there was simply nothing left to say.
54
Sunday Morning
“So I’m here,” Evan says, standing in the doorway.