Full Circle

 

Ruthie was practicing “Star of the East” on the piano when her daddy got home. He sank into his easy chair in front of the television – one of the only ones on the whole island – and growled at her to stop. She didn’t hear him and with cobra like speed, he rose, strode to the piano and slammed the cover down on her hands. When she screamed, he snarled and delivered a quick and furious backhand across her cheek, sending her tumbling off the bench and onto the floor. After a second or two, we broke through the paralysis of shock and terror and bolted, running like hell was at our backs and gaining.

Sadly, neither of us was completely unfamiliar with domestic violence but this was new – close up, bloody and absolutely terrifying – we were running for our lives and instinctively headed for Doc McDonald’s. Ruthie was cradling her hands against her heart and sobbing.

Her mouth was bleeding badly but neither of us slowed down. We didn’t know if the devil would chase us and we weren’t about to find out. What we did know, had always known so it seemed, was that an old drunk didn’t have a prayer of catching up with two healthy, 1o year olds, even if one was injured. Still, we ran like the wind, all the way to Doc’s.

Three fingers on Ruthie’s left hand and two on her right were broken and it took four stitches to close the wound at the corner of her mouth. Remarkably, Doc asked no questions, just set about splinting, bandaging and sewing her up, gave her a shot for the pain and then packed us into his old station wagon and looking like death come for the old dog, drove us to The Point and my grandmother. As we pulled into and down the gravel driveway, Ruthie elbowed me sharply.

“When they ask us,” she whispered low, harsh, and urgent, “I fell. We was runnin’ and I tripped and fell in the ditch. Cross your heart that’s what you tell ’em!”

I knew in my heart how unfair it was and I wanted to protest the lie but I didn’t. I couldn’t overlook Ruthie’s bruised, tear stained face and broken hands but I knew the truth could bring even worse. It began to seem like a small lie, a well intended cover up and best for all concerned. Feeling sick and frightened, I crossed my heart. I was sure Doc would know the truth and positive Nana wouldn’t believe us but I crossed my heart anyway.

“I fell,” Ruthie told Doc and Nana stubbornly.

“Reckon she tripped over a rock,” I said shakily, “Fell right into the ditch.”

“You was runnin’,” my grandmother said with a gentleness I’d never have expected, “Who was in front?”

“I was,” I said, eager to step up because when you’re ten and lying doesn’t come natural, you make mistakes.

“If you was in front,” Doc said casually, “How’d you see her fall?”

“I heard it,” I said at once, more than a little proud of my cleverness, “And when I turned around she was in the ditch.”

“That what happened, Ruth?” the doctor asked and Ruthie nodded.

“I fell,” she repeated, so sincerely that I almost believed her, “Weren’t nobody’s fault.”

“And why,” Nana asked almost casually, “Were you runnin’ in the first place?”

And that’s when the trap door came down because we had no answer and it was clear anything we came up with would be just one more fable. We opted to take our chances with shrugs and silence, hoping to buy ourselves some time but we knew that neither Doc nor my grandmother were in the market. We then opted for tears and must’ve looked perilously pitiful because the adults exchanged glances and then let us go for the moment. We fled upstairs to the room we always shared when Ruthie spent the night and curled up together on the big double bed. We didn’t talk and it wasn’t long before being worn out and still a little in shock, we fell asleep.

We stayed put until Nana woke us for supper a few hours later. She’d called Aunt Jenny, she told us casually and explained that Ruthie would be staying with us for a day or so. If Ruthie’s mother had her suspicions, she kept them to herself just as she did the bruises that often appeared on her arms and neck. And then, just after supper, we got a visit from Remy Prime, the only law enforcement the RCMP had on the island. He and my grandmother talked quietly on the sun porch with the door closed for well over an hour and it was coming dark when he left. Ruthie and I, young but old enough to understand consequences, were too frightened to even speak to him.

In a perfect world, there would have been some justice and maybe even some change but we were a tiny fishing village on one end of a 12 mile long island- isolated, proud, self sufficient and in favor of quietly solving our own problems. Nobody was going to be rehabilitated or go to jail, there would be no counseling for the victims nor any retribution. Ruthie went home after a couple of days and as far as we knew, her daddy never raised his hand to her or her mother for years. Too many folks were watching. Much later, when he drank himself into a stupor and drowned, nobody talked much about it and nobody mourned. It was ruled an accident and there were no questions asked.

I didn’t hear it myself but when he was asked about it, Remy Prime reportedly said, “Weren’t nobody’s fault. He fell.”