Ruthie's daddy didn't call her, he whistled.
She was the child of an alcoholic and abusive father and that whistle came to have ominous meaning for us as we grew up. At the sound, she had to run for all she was worth to avoid a whipping or worse. We were allowed to be friends only because my grandmother had confronted him once and threatened him about raising his hand to her again. He was a short, balding, evil natured man with coke bottle glasses, a quick temper, and a mean streak. He spoke in a low, muttering voice, avoided eye contact and never smiled. Ruthie and her mother were terrorized by him and most of the island folk steered clear of him, not willing to risk his anger or a run in with the shotgun he kept behind the counter. He was a bully, sullen and surly when drunk, disagreeable and unpredictable when not.
Ruthie's mother, a tall and heavy set woman with a frail nature, seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was always weary, beaten down by years of overwork and abuse. She cooked and cleaned, tended the store, saw to the bills, kept the yard, took in other peoples ironing, made sure everything was exactly to her husband's liking. On Sundays, she sang in the choir and taught Sunday school and did her best to pretend that her life was normal. No one interfered. Ruthie helped out at home and at the store and her childhood slipped away slowly bit by bit. At seventeen, she married and fled to the mainland. She never spoke of her parents, never took her children to see them or invited them into her home. She had gotten out and out she was determined to stay.
Her mother died first, a cold turned into the flu and the flu turned into pneumonia which went untreated for several weeks. By the time her husband allowed a doctor in, it was too late and she spent another week or so in bed before not waking up morning. After the store had not opened for several days, curious neighbors went to the house to find a scene straight out of a crime drama show - a bedroom littered with trash and empty whiskey bottles, a dead woman, and a husband passed out cold, lying on the bed next to her. John Sullivan built a coffin out of pine and there was a small graveside service that Ruthie did not attend although a few days later, a wreath of flowers appeared on the grave. The ferrymen talked of a woman in a black dress with a black veil who came and went almost unnoticed that same day. Not long after, a lobsterman dredged Ruthie's father's body from the cove just past the store. He was quickly and quietly taken to Peter's Island, a spit of land that served as home for the lighthouse. There was no ceremony and no marker and soon the weeds and vines overtook the grave and it was forgotten. His shotgun was never found and the death was never reported.
My grandmother heard the news and was unmoved. Sometimes, she said, all you can do is bury the past and move on.
She was the child of an alcoholic and abusive father and that whistle came to have ominous meaning for us as we grew up. At the sound, she had to run for all she was worth to avoid a whipping or worse. We were allowed to be friends only because my grandmother had confronted him once and threatened him about raising his hand to her again. He was a short, balding, evil natured man with coke bottle glasses, a quick temper, and a mean streak. He spoke in a low, muttering voice, avoided eye contact and never smiled. Ruthie and her mother were terrorized by him and most of the island folk steered clear of him, not willing to risk his anger or a run in with the shotgun he kept behind the counter. He was a bully, sullen and surly when drunk, disagreeable and unpredictable when not.
Ruthie's mother, a tall and heavy set woman with a frail nature, seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was always weary, beaten down by years of overwork and abuse. She cooked and cleaned, tended the store, saw to the bills, kept the yard, took in other peoples ironing, made sure everything was exactly to her husband's liking. On Sundays, she sang in the choir and taught Sunday school and did her best to pretend that her life was normal. No one interfered. Ruthie helped out at home and at the store and her childhood slipped away slowly bit by bit. At seventeen, she married and fled to the mainland. She never spoke of her parents, never took her children to see them or invited them into her home. She had gotten out and out she was determined to stay.
Her mother died first, a cold turned into the flu and the flu turned into pneumonia which went untreated for several weeks. By the time her husband allowed a doctor in, it was too late and she spent another week or so in bed before not waking up morning. After the store had not opened for several days, curious neighbors went to the house to find a scene straight out of a crime drama show - a bedroom littered with trash and empty whiskey bottles, a dead woman, and a husband passed out cold, lying on the bed next to her. John Sullivan built a coffin out of pine and there was a small graveside service that Ruthie did not attend although a few days later, a wreath of flowers appeared on the grave. The ferrymen talked of a woman in a black dress with a black veil who came and went almost unnoticed that same day. Not long after, a lobsterman dredged Ruthie's father's body from the cove just past the store. He was quickly and quietly taken to Peter's Island, a spit of land that served as home for the lighthouse. There was no ceremony and no marker and soon the weeds and vines overtook the grave and it was forgotten. His shotgun was never found and the death was never reported.
My grandmother heard the news and was unmoved. Sometimes, she said, all you can do is bury the past and move on.
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