Ruth is stunned. She glares at me. It is the glare that usually makes everyone freeze or jump into action, depending on the situation, and has been christened “the evil eye” by her children. But I do not flinch. Mahlon looks at me and at Ruth. And then back at me. His smile has faded a bit and his eyes show some vague traces of anxiety. Obed looks at me and at Ruth. And then back at me. He shakes his head and says under his breath: “She ain’t gonna like you after this, man. She ain’t gonna like you no more.”
“This ain’t Africa, Mr. Professional Mourner,” Ruth finally says, trying to muster as much sarcasm in her tone as she can. “We got our way of doing things here.”
This shuts me up. She orders Obed to clear the dishes, but while he tries to do so she stands up and clears the table herself. She always does that. Gives her children chores to do, but ends up doing them herself, not because they have shirked but because she thinks they are not doing a proper job of it.
I have heard her ask Obed to do the laundry. But even before he gets to do it Ruth takes over and does it herself with her rickety washing machine in the small room adjacent to the kitchen. She then wakes up early in the morning to hang it on the line. The clothes, especially the sheets, become rock solid even before she has properly hung them. She dips her hands in a bucket of hot water and then hangs another garment, while complaining that her children are lazy and want her to do all the work. The winter sun dries the clothes by the end of the day and they acquire a beautiful fresh winter scent.
With these dishes for instance, she takes over because she says Obed is doing the job half-heartedly. I also stand up to assist her, and in the kitchen we decide that we might as well wash the dishes rather than leave them there for another time. I wash, she dries. Not a word passes between us, which makes me very nervous. I miss the Ruth who is always ready with a smile and the stories of how her “race of people” came into being, and how they are the future of the world, and of the greatness of her favorite politician of all times, who is the chosen one since he gets his messages from God. This smarting Ruth is not the Ruth whose company I would like to keep. As soon as I finish washing the last plate I dash out to the living room to join Obed and Mahlon.
They are staring at the blank screen of the television, a ritual they have been following since the set broke down a few days ago. We have been waiting for Nathan to come and fix it — another feather in his cap since he is handy at fixing gadgets and Obed is not. Ruth returns from the kitchen and we all silently watch the television. For the past few days it has been painful to watch the withdrawal symptoms of the family, especially Ruth and Obed. Orpah, of course, could not have cared less since she has her drawings and her sitar in her room. I don’t know if Mahlon was bothered at all since his expression never changes. But Ruth and Obed! They became irritable and cantankerous. But now they are getting used to the absence of television and are waiting patiently for Nathan’s return from construction sites in neighboring counties.
Television is the family’s lifeblood. The family interacts with the rest of America through television. They partake of the American dream through the lives of the celebrities whose wealth, love affairs, divorces and pregnancies are followed faithfully. When they comment on them it is as though they know them personally. In this way they are no different from third world people who have never set foot on American soil yet live on a daily diet of these programs and American food aid. The Quigleys depend for their survival on food rations from the Kilvert Community Center. They “shop” for all their clothes at the Center. Since my arrival I contribute toward the groceries. And I pay for room and board. Which all goes a long way toward giving our dinner table some variety.
But of course I am digressing now. We are watching the blank screen. Silent. Smiling smileless smiles. Moping. Smarting. Even Orpah’s sitar is silent. Perhaps she is creating replacements for the designs that have been destroyed today.
The absence of television doesn’t really bother me because even when it is blaring above any meaningful conversation it rarely ever gives me a picture of what is happening in the world. America is kept ignorant of the world; except of course of the places where the homeland’s troops are actively involved. Even in that case they only know what it is in the national interest to know, for their free and independent media are patriotic and will therefore not give all sides of the story. This last observation may appear commonplace to most American readers. They may even think it lowers the tone of my story. But it will certainly amaze those who are following my story from South Africa; they think that the media here are the freest ever and that journalists can report on anything without fear of being labeled unpatriotic.
Anyway, Americans can afford to be ignorant about the world because they don’t need the world. They are, after all, as their Commander-in-Chief once put it, God’s gift to humanity. Even Obed, who otherwise does not share Ruth’s faith in the Commander-in-Chief, believes that he is God’s gift to humanity. He has said as much whenever we disagree on something. He always resorts to invoking his Americanness as a way of convincing me of the rightness of his position.
After an uneasy silence on my part I break it. I apologize to Ruth for my indiscretions. I admit that her family matters are none of my business. Encouraged by the slight smile on her face I tell her how much I have admired her and her love of tradition. Her tradition of making food, for instance. Her face brightens and her smile broadens. I knew I would get her there. Food. I have become a scoundrel like Obed.
“Lots of us have not lost that tradition,” she tells me.
Then she goes on about the great tradition of making food that must last for the whole year. Preserving corn, beans and vegetables. Bottling the food that lends itself to bottling. Making her own dressing and ketchup. Hanging the meat and smoking it in the smoke room. Scraping mold from it before cooking it.
I have seen some of this food for it is stored in the cellar where I sleep. Except for the smoked meat, which was moved to the attic some time back, after I could not stomach the smell at night. This tradition, I tell her, is nourishing. We are so much at peace with each other that I do not voice my thoughts that the destruction of Orpah’s work is not a nourishing tradition.
“One day Orpah will know I am doing all this for her,” says Ruth. “To save her from herself. Why don’t she understand that? Why don’t she wanna learn nothing?”
She breaks into a sob. For the first time I see an anxious look on Mahlon. He looks at me as if he is blaming me for making his Ruth cry.
“Everything’s gonna be all right, Mama,” says Obed softly, as he helps her up from the car seat. I hand her the cane from the floor. She is sniveling as she waddles off to her room.
Ruth regains some of her confidence in me, and once more we are friends. But it is no longer like before. I can feel that something now stands between us. Yes, we still do sit on the swing when Mahlon is not hogging it. This afternoon the winter winds are blowing such a chill it would be death to sit outdoors. So we sit in front of the stove enjoying the sleep-tempting sounds of the flames and taking in the waxy smell of the burning wood. She has that beautiful faraway look as she tells me about the first Quigley (Lord have mercy on him); a great Irishman who was a conductor of the Underground Railroad; a friend and ally of the Tablers after whom Tabler Town was named before it became Kilvert. He had pretty black hair. “I suppose that’s where I get my pretty black hair,” she adds. I look at the mop on her head. It is no longer the pretty black hair she is talking about. It is predominantly silver and brown with only a few streaks of black. I remember Obed telling me about the first Quigley to settle in Tabler Town. That one was blond. I also remember observing within myself that hair was the first feature they mentioned whenever they talked of their forebears.