Ruth, Genevieve, Fairfax, and Nancy

“Who am I to put words into His mouth?” Ruth asks Genevieve.  Well, Jenny, rather.  That’s what Genevieve prefers to be called, since she and Ruth are friends now.

Friends! With Genevieve Fitch! Can you imagine?

Ruth could tell Henry was bemused last night as she nattered on, giggling like a schoolgirl about her stylish new friend.  They were getting together weekly at each other’s houses for the girls to play together. One time they’d even met for lunch and a swim at the Yacht Club (the Fitches were members).  So fancy!   

Of course, old sensible Henry had not seemed the least impressed by Ruth’s new buddy.  Or, let’s just say, he hadn’t understood why she was so impressed by Jenny. 

“Ruthie, you are a likeable person.  Why wouldn’t this Fitch lady want to be buddies?” he’d asked her.

Well, gosh, there are lots of reasons, Ruth had wanted to say.

For one thing, Genevieve Fitch is the kind of person who would never associate with the likes of plain Ruth Plumb.  She has her hair done once a week at Casey Coleman’s, nails painted by the most popular manicurist in Avondale, whoever that might be.  Ruth is so far removed from the socialite scene that she hasn’t the vaguest idea where one goes for complicated grooming, like pedicures and facials.  In her entire life, she’s never had either one. 

Yes, elegant, groomed Jenny, tooling around from this committee to that, was the sort of woman Ruth usually watched from afar.  A member of a different tribe, with her shiny new Ford station wagon, fancy velour seats and all, tow-headed children tumbling into the back.  Those twin boys—you could eat them up with a spoon! Jenny’s little girl is a blonde angel, just like her mother.  Same sharp features, tiny frame.  No wasted space.  Elegant and compact.

And here sits Ruth, in her knock-off Earth Shoes and trusty denim skirt, legs so long she tends to hook them around each other just to get them out of the way. Four-year-old Nancy has started to do the same thing, which makes Ruth equal parts proud and worried.  It’s not easy growing up gangly—so much harder to avoid the mess in this world. 

Every week, Nancy seems to sprout an inch, and Ruth has to stop herself from pushing down on her only child’s head to stunt her growth.  It would have been better if their daughter had gotten Henry’s family genes; well the shortness one, at least.  And those traits of organizing and keeping things neat.  Just look! Nancy’s white turtle neck already has a chocolate stain on it.  Well, it will be a stain, once that crumb from her ice cream sandwich gets rubbed into the cotton. 

Of course, there are no stains yet on the smocked collar of little Fairfax’s dress.  She’s nibbling on the treat like a mouse, holding it well away from her clothes, most likely mimicking her mother’s manners.  Or, she could have just come out that way—some children seem to be born knowing how to be clean and pretty.  Poised.

Ruth reaches over and flicks the crumb from Nancy’s top onto the kitchen floor.  Her daughter barely notices; she resettles her bottom on the phone book booster seat and licks on.

Maybe if Ruth had served vanilla pudding, it would have been better.  Practically colorless, that goo. Snack Packs tasted pretty good too; she could’ve popped open some cans, dumped them into a wooden bowl.  It might have even looked like she made it herself on the stove, sugar, eggs, the whole nine yards.

But who is she trying to impress?  You can’t be anything but yourself, can you?  Besides, Ruth is finding that Jenny Fitch doesn’t care a bit if something is homemade or store-bought, how clean your kitchen is, which decorator you use. (The answer to that question, should it ever be asked, is Sears Roebuck!)

Their conversation today has steered clear of all that superficial fluff and made a beeline straight for meaningful.  That is, to Ruth’s new needlepoint on the wall.  Product of a church class, the church she and Jenny both attend.  The final product shows some missed stitches, and Ruth had to pull out her red-threaded rendition of a flame—it had looked too much like a bloody fingerprint, go figure.  There was still some scarlet fuzz in the middle which Henry said was hardly noticeable. He had patted her on the shoulder, saying she should be proud of herself for sewing all those words.

Her husband didn’t seem to remember, though Ruth had told him early on, that it wasn’t so much the needlework she was proud of as the poem itself.  Well, actually, Jenny called it “verse,” so maybe that was more accurate.  Calling Ruth’s creation a “poem” was a bit of a stretch, just like her. Ha!

What she is most proud of, at any rate, is the message of her verse.  And Jenny seems to understand what Ruth is trying to express through the wavery brown letters.

“You are right on target with that verse, Ruth,” Jenny says, sipping her decaf coffee from the best mug in the Plumb’s collection.  No chips or cracks. 

“You think?” Ruth tucks her legs beneath her chair, smooths the denim skirt over her knees to busy her hands.  So she won’t lift them over her head and shout “hallelujah!”  Because It feels good to be heard.  It’s a kind of a miracle when someone understands your feeling at its very root.  

Ruth feels like she’s just been served a big bowl of homemade vanilla pudding.  Out of nowhere, a genuine, preservative-free treat hand-made just for her.

Jenny has touched a tendril of her teased hair, pressed it away from a mascaraed eye.  “And you aren’t putting words in God’s mouth.  You are speaking about your own experience. And, for that matter, don’t you think that God speaks through us, if we listen carefully enough?” She touches the top of Fairfax’s head, straightening a bow settled there.  “The thing is, we’ve got to have silence to hear Him. There is so much folderol nowadays, we can’t discern the message.”

Ruth smiles.  This is the kind of conversation she keeps trying to have with people at church, in Sunday School, but everyone is busy with activities and more plans for activities.  Fund raisers and food drives and sign-up sheets.

And asking for money.

Oh, yes, Jenny hit the nail on the head—folderol! Ruth smacks her thighs with her palms. “I call it hurly-burly! It’s like, what do they call it, a shell game!  All the wrong things grab our eyes, yank our attention away from Him.”  She sighs, content in the kitchen, with the two girls intent on their ice cream.  Having a good conversation with someone equally bent on finding the right path.  A friend.

Quiet creeps in from the corners of the small house, cushioning their bubble of four.  Ruth sees her daughter glance at Fairfax’s ice cream sandwich, which is nearly whole (unlike Nancy’s own stubby piece).  Nancy’s going to want another one, Ruth just knows it, and maybe she’ll let her have one today.  Anything to prolong this play time. Little Fairfax continues nibbling on her snack one micro-bit at a time, green-blue eyes staring at the needlepoint on the wall.

Like Mother, like daughter, because Jenny’s gaze is on the sampler again.  She seems unaware that there is a large black dot on her cheekbone.  Ruth first thinks it is chocolate sandwich gone astray then realizes it’s merely mascara.  But she says nothing to her friend about migrating makeup because perfection is the wrong goal, the absolute wrong heat for their flame. Ruth is beginning to see that Jenny, like she, is after something else. Conversations about appearances have no place in this kitchen.

“Let’s just pray these two understand how to find their way to Him,” Jenny remarks softly.

“Amen,” Ruth replies, just as quietly.  Her homely old kitchen is suddenly lit yellow by the afternoon light.  The stainless-steel sink gleams in spite of it being none too clean.  She starts to speak, finds her throat clogged with something akin to tears. 

Jenny looks at her, smiles, and with that motion, the black dot of mascara falls from her cheek.

Ruth clears her throat. “I hope we have the time to teach them.  It’s not the easiest thing to remember, I’m realizing.  I mean, to focus on what is good and right and true… ” Her words trail off.  And kind and fair, she wants to add but doesn’t because Jenny is nodding.

“We get sidetracked, don’t we? I mean, look at our lives, look at the world!” Jenny clucks her tongue. “Every generation says they have it bad, but I truly believe our time is the worst ever, don’t you?”

Vietnam, gas shortages, Watergate, the Cold War, prejudice which shows no sign of fading…Jenny has a point. 

But, Ruth wants to say, every generation has their own set of problems.  Thank goodness, Vietnam has ended—it was awful but no more awful than World War I, and II, and all the other wars, though she’s having trouble at the moment naming any.

“At least we aren’t living during the Black Death, Jenny,” Ruth says instead. Yes, that was a bad era!  Hundreds of years before they started to figure it out.

“Yes, I agree, hurray for antibiotics! A plague would be awful!” As punctuation, Jenny taps Fairfax on the top of her tiny hand.  Ruth notes that the little girl’s nails are painted the same color as her mother’s. 

Jenny continues, “Finish that up, Fair dear, we need to be moving along.” She glances at her watch.  “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to scoot to pick the boys up at school.”

Ruth is surprised to feel disappointment welling up, re-clogging her throat.  Come on, get a grip, old girl! She forces herself to smile, and the tension melts away.  “No matter, we can pick up next time where we left off.”

Because there would be a next time, and then a time after that, Ruth just knows it.  Theirs is a conversation that is meant to continue.

“Yes!” Jenny stands.  Her wrap-around-skirt sports a frog print.  Ruth had seen the same skirt in an Avondale store window; Nancy had pointed it out when they were shopping for Buster Brown shoes.   “We’ve got time, Ruth.” Jenny wipes her daughter’s fingers with a paper towel from the pile Ruth had placed on the table.  She grins and looks around the room.  “I meant to tell you, this is such a pretty kitchen!”

The sunshine has intensified the gold tones in the counters and linoleum, reminding Ruth of a drop of amber pictured in a National Geographic Magazine.  For a few seconds, the room feels suspended in time just like that scarab beetle caught in golden goo.

“Thank you, Jenny.” Ruth reaches out to touch her friend’s hand.  Never mind her torn cuticles or the week-old burn from the skillet. 

Something in this moment is meant for the ages.