A chair moved behind him. He turned casually, expecting to see the kitten en route to the table.
Instead he saw Ruth Rose sitting, looking at him. She was waving a kitchen knife in front of her.
“Just listen to me,” she said. “Don’t do anything until you’ve heard me out.”
“Nice to see you, too,” he said.
He turned back to his task as if it was no big deal to have some soaking sneak sitting in your kitchen waving a weapon at you. From the wood box he found a couple of birch logs to throw into the good old Ashley heater. Suddenly everything became a lot warmer.
“You sure are quick,” he said as he closed the stove door. “And quiet.”
Compliments were the best weapons you could use on Ruth Rose. They threw her. She didn’t seem quite sure what to do or say and that gave Jim the time he needed to look her over. Her hair was bedraggled, her jacket waterlogged, her jeans mud-splattered and her sneakers — her sneakers looked like they were made of clay.
“You look great,” said Jim. “Where’ve you been?”
She snickered and put the knife down on the table. “I’ve been okay,” she said in a breezy way. “I’ve got lots of places to stay.”
“Ruth Rose Way?”
She looked unexpectedly pleased, as if she wasn’t used to people listening to her, let alone remembering what she said.
“Yeah. There’s a million places to hide.”
Jim was looking at her closely. “Like our hay mow, for instance?”
She looked wary. “Did you know I was there?”
He clicked his tongue like a scolding teacher. “You need help with detective work and then you act surprised when I do some detecting.” He stepped closer and pulled some stringy hay from her hair. He held it up for her to see. “Bet it wasn’t very warm.” She didn’t answer.
“I slept out there once,” he said. “I thought it would be cool. It was cool, all right. It was only August and I nearly froze.”
“Yeah, well, then I don’t need to tell you.” Her face was wan, exhausted.
“Here.” He led her over to the rocker where he stood like a chauffeur who had just opened the door to a limo. “The best seat in the house.”
She didn’t argue.
“Pee-ew!” he said, as she sat down.
“Shut up!” She pulled off her shoes and curled up in the chair. “So I’ve been living in a barn for a week. What do you expect?”
“It isn’t the barn,” said Jim. “It’s the perfume trying to cover the barn.”
She growled at him. “My daddy — my real daddy — gave me rose water for my seventh birthday. I’ve worn it ever since. Every single day.”
A car drove by on the line and Ruth Rose jumped like a startled hare.
“It’s all right,” he said, checking the front window.
“When’s your mother coming back?” Ruth Rose settled back in her chair, but with her filthy feet firmly on the ground.
“Her note says around five, but she won’t mind. You can stay here if you want.”
Ruth Rose’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you can stay here. Your mom even gave me some stuff of yours.”
Ruth Rose was on her feet again and heading for the door.
“Wait!”
She didn’t listen. She was on the porch and heading down the steps before she realized she had forgotten her shoes. She marched back into the kitchen and started trying to squeeze her foot into one of them. Muck poured out onto the rug.
“What’s wrong with you?” demanded Jim. “We’re not going to tell anyone you’re here. Is that what you’re worried about?”
She looked up. He could see she wanted to believe him.
“We were there — at church — when you did your thing. I think it was the bravest thing I ever saw in my life.” She stopped putting on her shoe and looked at him. He had to make her believe in him.
“I’ve found out some stuff,” he said. He expected her to ask what — he was dying to tell her. Then he realized she was shaking like a leaf.
He jumped up again. “Stay right here!” He ran out of the room into the front parlour, turned and came back. “I’m not phoning anyone or anything. There’s only one phone and it’s right over there.” He pointed to the table. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Through the parlour, up the stairs, into the bathroom. He put the stopper in the tub and started running hot water. He read the instructions on some bath soap of his mother’s and carefully measured a capful of the stuff into the gushing, steaming stream. The room immediately smelled of evening primrose. Perfect.
He raced around a bit more, getting towels and the bag Nancy Fisher had given him, all of which he left in the bathroom, and then he raced down to the kitchen, afraid all the time that she would be gone. But she was still there. Snoot had found her and was holding onto her.
“I ran you a really hot bath. If you still think I’m going to rat on you, you can take the phone in the tub.”
Jim realized he had been shouting. Not angrily — he hoped it didn’t sound angry. He was shouting from joy or tension or some other crazy thing. Shouting to use up some of the energy he had been storing while he waited for her to show up, half afraid she had disappeared forever. People did that.
She didn’t take the phone. Jim made a salad as his mother had asked him to in her note. He cleaned up the mess Ruth Rose had left on the floor and then he set the table for three. He hadn’t done that for a long time.
She came down just before five, her hair all stringy but clean and hay-free. She had dabbed on some of her rose water and it was sweet, no longer having to fight with the smell of cow manure. She was wearing a shapeless pair of worn brown cords that belonged to his mother and a turtleneck of her own. She had cinched the pants up tight around her skinny waist.
She went straight to the window to see if anyone was coming. Then she looked around as if she were disoriented, until Jim realized she was searching for her sneakers. He led her to the sink. Her sneakers were submerged in filthy water. He pulled them out and rubbed away the caked-on muck. Then, while she watched, he stuffed them full of newspaper and put them on a baking tray beside the woodstove.
“It’s not a trap,” he said. “Honest.”
She smiled dully and sat down on the rocking chair, still without saying a word.
“There’s stew,” he said. The aroma filled the old kitchen. She looked at the crockpot, then looked at the table set for three.
“I can wait,” she said, and her voice was like a little girl’s voice, as if it had shrunk in the bath.
Jim looked at the clock, looked out the window expectantly. “We’ll talk later when my mother’s gone to work.”
He looked hard at her. She nodded, slack-jawed. There was a kind of dreamy look on her face. At first he had thought it was just because she had washed away her heavy eye make-up, but suddenly he realized what it really was.
“Did you take one of your pills?”
Her head bobbed up and down. She held up her fingers in a peace sign.
“Two?”
She nodded again and grinned. It reminded Jim of Gladys. It made him mad, for some reason, as if it wasn’t the real Ruth Rose. And it sure wasn’t the same Ruth Rose who had stormed the Church of the Blessed Transfiguration. That was the comrade he was looking for.
“Listen,” he said. “Don’t tell my mother your theories about Father being a murderer. I don’t think she’s ready for that. But don’t lie, either, if you can help it. Don’t freak out, okay?”
“Why do you think I took my good-girl medicine?” said Ruth Rose.
Jim started to slice up the bread for supper. He wasn’t doing such a good job of it. The pieces started out too thick and ended up way too thin.