The radio from Orpah’s room is blaring country music. And then the one o’clock news. Something about Lynndie England’s court martial next month for her abuse of Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib. It must be a West Virginia station because the commentator seems to take it personally that Specialist England is from that state. He, however, consoles his listeners by reminding them that as far as female soldiers go the state has produced a great heroine and role model in the form of Private Jessica Lynch who was held prisoner by Iraqis and was the first prisoner of war to be rescued by American forces since the Second World War. The state therefore knows the glory and the ignominy of women in the military.
The persecution of poor Lynndie England infuriates Ruth and she wonders aloud why they don’t want to let the matter rest. They have been on about the Iraqi prisoners from the time the scandal was exposed seven months ago, as if nothing else of importance has happened in the world since then. “Why they make all that noise about them prisoners in Iraq? The Iraqis would’ve done the same to American prisoners.”
Again it is one of those moments when I’d rather not voice a contrary opinion. But Ruth is very clever. She can sense that I don’t quite share her sympathies with Specialist England. “Todoloo!” she says. “Enemy prisoners are enemy prisoners. Even God drowned Pharaoh’s soldiers to save Moses and the Israelites.”
I shift uncomfortably on my chair. Through the window I can see Mahlon on the porch. He is standing on a chair and is polishing the wind chimes. Ruth yells at Orpah to shut the darn radio off or at least lower the volume. She opts for switching it off. After a brief moment I see her standing next to Mahlon, looking up at him and telling him something that makes him stop his work and climb down from the chair. He embraces Orpah and she breaks out into sobs that visibly shake her body. The two walk together to the swing and sit on it and it begins to sway in a slow rhythm.
Ruth is watching them too. She shakes her head pityingly. Then she tells me as she walks to the kitchen that she is going to make some dandelion salad. Orpah loves dandelion salad. She will forget about her silliness when she tastes the salad.
That’s the Ruth I have come to know. Food is her solution to every problem, although I do not know what her problem with Orpah is. Yes, she is a moody woman, but surely she can’t be crying just because her mother demanded that she lower the volume or switch the radio off. And why is Ruth so eager to make amends?
“Ain’t you gonna ask where I get dandelions in winter?” she asks.
“I don’t know anything about dandelions,” I tell her.
“I have my secret ways,” she says in her conspiratorial voice.
In spring when the weed is plentiful she uses the leaves for salad. She also harvests the flowers, wraps them in flour mixed with eggs and deep fries them. She has her own way of drying the flowers so that her family can enjoy this delicacy all year round. It will never be as good as fresh dandelions though, but it is better than no dandelion at all. And it is important to use only yellow dandelion flowers, she stresses, as if I threatened to go get some. White dandelions are bitter. So when she talks of dandelion salad in this case, she is really talking of deep-fried dandelion flowers.
“I always tell them kids,” she says, “don’t kill the dandelion. It’s more than just a weed.”
As Ruth is busy with her delicacy in the kitchen — taking care to make it just as her Orpah likes it — I wander back to the living room. That’s when I see the drawings in the trash can. They are all in pieces. I retrieve them and spread the pieces on Ruth’s quilting table. I try to put them together. It is not easy because some pieces are just too small. But I can make out the usual ghost trees. Usual only in that they are ghost trees. They are all different and each one seems to have a life of its own, with symmetric roots poking through the ground for some distance, then re-entering the earth. From the few pieces I am able to put together I notice that there are human figures this time. Two figures, one white in a black background and the other black in a white background sitting like fetuses in the stylized heart of a ghost tree. The same figures in another picture are ice skating on what is obviously a frozen river. The pose is more like that of the figure skaters that I have seen on television, although these are in silhouette.
At this point Obed arrives and I know immediately that he will have the scheme-of-the-day for me since I haven’t seen him since last night at dinner time.
“What’s up, homey?” he asks. Then he sees the jigsaw puzzle on the table and warns me in a very serious tone: “You don’t wanna mess with those.”
“She’s very talented…Orpah is,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Obed. “And she’s got issues too. It’s because of the mark of the Irishman.”
“What on earth is the mark of the Irishman?”
Obed is suddenly quiet and when I look up I know why. Orpah is standing a few feet away, glaring at us.
“You little shit,” she says to Obed. “You gonna announce to the whole world about the fuckin’ mark of the fuckin’ Irishman?”
This is the first time I hear her voice. She sounds like a younger Ruth. Except for the cussing, of course. I have never heard Ruth use this kind of language.
I break into a friendly smile and look into Orpah’s eyes. Even though the content of her voice is so crude, its texture is gentle. And tired. I am ashamed to tell you that her profanity gives me a hard-on; not, of course, in the way that her sitar did. But every shit and fuckin’ she utters makes my body tingle. I wish I knew more about the mark of the Irishman.
“I was telling your brother that these are wonderful works of art,” I say. “What I don’t understand is why you would want to destroy them like this.”
“I didn’t,” she says. “Ruth did.”
So Ruth is Ruth to her while she is mama to Obed.
“Why would Ruth do such a thing?”
“She hates anything beautiful.”
“But this is wonderful art. Only the Taliban destroys works of art.”
She almost smiles. Her face becomes gentler.
“She is the Taliban in the house,” she says.
Obed laughs. “That’s a good one,” he says, and then in rap style: “Mama is da Taliban in da house!”
That accounts for the drawings in the ghost tree. She was not throwing them away. She was hiding them from Ruth. That’s what she has to do every time Ruth is spring-cleaning. And when Ruth is spring-cleaning she leaves no room unscathed. She cleans mine too, although I am always there, pleading with her to leave it alone since I do clean it on a regular basis. So every time Ruth is in her cleaning mood Orpah must hide her artworks. But sometimes Ruth decides on the spur of the moment to storm through the house cleaning everything in sight because her nostrils have detected an odor that no one else’s nostrils can. Then of course Orpah is caught off guard and has no opportunity to hide her work. Ruth pounces on it and destroys it. Orpah cries because she says she will never be able to repeat those particular designs.
“She should be encouraging this work instead of destroying it,” I say.
I have been careful not to tread on Ruth’s toes. But I think I must take this matter up at the dinner table. Taking advantage of the vulnerability that I have seen in Orpah, and hoping that she now sees me as an ally and not the enemy she must have taken me for, I invite her to join the family for dinner. I think it is important that the matter is discussed openly in her presence. The irony is not lost on me that I, a visitor, am inviting her to dinner in her own home. She turns the invitation down because she will not sit at the same table with her mother until she learns to respect both her art and her privacy.