Author's Note: To save any confusion... the very end of chapter 9 skipped ahead, while this chapter reverses (it's the Monday right afterthe Sunday in chapter 9), and then chapter 11 will pick up where chapter 9 left off. That probably didn't make a lick of sense, but you'll get it as you read. I hope. And I hope I didn't bore anyone with the last chapter -- I realize it had very little to do with Joan, but I felt it was important to show Ruthie's side of things, and, as you can tell from the length, I really loved writing from her perspective. Anyway, there's really only one other time that I focus solely on Ruthie like that, and that's for part of chapter 11, but it's important to the story (as was chapter 9). So don't skip it. ;)
Funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do
Run and find the one who loves me
What I feel has come and gone before
No need to talk it out, we know what it's all about
Hangin' around, nothing to do but frown
Rainy days and Mondays always get me down
--The Carpenters, "Rainy Days and Mondays"
RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS
Joan hadn't seen Ruthie since baby-sitting on Saturday. Sunday was tedious and spent ruminating -- what was Ruthie doing? Worse, what was Donovan doing? By Monday it was all Joan could do to make it through the classes that preceded choir. She didn't think of her days in terms of hours or school or bumming around with Grace anymore. (She and Grace were barely speaking.) They were the time that passed between seeing Ruthie and then seeing her again. And the first weekend that Joan had had to weather through with the knowledge of Donovan's abuse turned out to be a bitch.
She was still lying to her mother, who had sat her down late Saturday night for yet another interrogation. Helen gave such an accurate description of what she believed was going on with Ruthie and Donovan, attributing Joan's recent moodiness to it, as well, that Joan came close to blurting the whole story. She might have, if not for the details of how unwilling Ruthie had been to talk.
"This is serious, Joan. If you know something, you should tell me," Helen said.
"She's my teacher, Mom. I don't know what goes on in her personal life."
More than the others, that lie ate at Joan. It felt like a betrayal to call Ruthie anything less than a friend.
Drab, chilly, and wet with drizzle that was havoc on the hair, Monday seemed to be reflecting Joan's frame of mind. She left for school with her parka hood pulled low on her brow and would have kept it there had she not met Price and his, "This is not a monastery, Ms. Girardi. Show us that radiant face," in the hall. She doffed the parka, but her spirits didn't boost until after lunch, choir right around the corner. Even now, in spite of their secret, Ruthie's class was the bright and optimistic part of Joan's day that made Arcadia High seem worth it.
"Ah, there's my girl," Ruthie said, glancing up from the papers on her desk when Joan arrived to an otherwise empty room. She rotated the seat of her swivel chair and looked at the wall clock behind her, adding, "And she's early. Brava."
"Am I?" Joan looked at the clock too, but she knew what time it was. She had hoped to find Ruthie alone. Were it possible, she would have done away with everyone else in choir, Friedman especially, and kept the instructor all to herself, just Joan and Ruthie.
"Little bit." Ruthie smiled and waved her over. "Did you have a good rest of the weekend?"
"Yeah, it was all right."
"Just all right?"
Joan nodded. "What about you?" She reached for the pink Sharpie on Ruthie's desk and idly rolled it along the surface, forward and back again. "Everything okay?"
"Mm-hmm." Ruthie trapped the Sharpie beneath her finger and sent it back with a flick of her lacquered nail. She liked the clean, weightless feel of clear polish and often wore that to school. Today, in her loose-fitting tan sweater and simple cream slacks, she was dressed down more than usual, so it worked, the plain trim. "All June and Charlie talked about was how much fun they had at Joanie's house, after we left the other day. They wanted to know if you could watch them while I teach, instead of the nanny."
"My offer to drop out still stands."
"Hey," Ruthie said, giving Joan's arm a light swat. More of a pat, really. "What about me?"
"Well, I'll drop everything but choir. The kids can come with me for that. I'll hide them in a duffel, and Price'll never know."
"Why does it sound like you've thought this through?"
"'Cause I have." Joan grinned, passing the marker. "Only, what I originally came up with was that you quit too, and both of us take the kids and go somewhere like, I dunno, California or something. Wait, there's the Broadway thing in New York. But nah, that's where you were before. Anyway, California. And you can become a singer - a famous one - and I'll be June and Charlie's nanny who just lives with you and travels with you." She peeked uncertainly at Ruthie, hoping that wasn't too over the top. It had sounded a lot less obsessive in her head.
"Nashville."
"Huh?"
Ruthie tried to aim the next serve out of Joan's reach. "We could go to Nashville," she said, her tongue dallying near the corner of her mouth. She withdrew it quickly. "California's too Britney Spears. And I don't want to go back to New York. Nashville's closer to my mom. I could be the new leading lady in country music: Loretta, Dolly, Reba, Martina... and Ruthie."
"Oh, my God," Joan said, and laughed too loudly. She covered her mouth. "Country? With the big hair and the cowboy boots and the crying into your beer?"
"That's such a stereotype. There's way more to country music than that. What? Stop it! There is." But Ruthie giggled, a soft and airy sound. "I'm serious, now. If you don't straighten up, I'm gonna make you sing with me. We'll be a duet. Like the Judds. And you'll be the one with the big hair and cowboy boots, while I'll get all the pretty dresses." She clapped her hands like a delighted little girl. "Oh, we would paint the tour bus pink, and there would be rhinestones. Oodles of rhinestones."
Amused by the image of herself with teased bangs and heavy makeup, Ruthie in a tacky gown, sashaying out of a twinkly fuchsia bus and onto the stage, Joan cracked up. She overdid her turn with the Sharpie. It clinked against the mug Ruthie kept filled with pens and pencils, and ricocheted off the desk, spinning on the floor like the decision arrow in a child's board game. "Oops. Sorry," she said as Ruthie rolled after their plaything, short legs and small feet working to influence the wheels of her chair.
"Uh-huh, you look real so-" Ruthie's gasp was sharp and spasmodic as she bent to grab the marker, forgetting her bruised ribs. She reached for them, caught her mistake, and sat upright, all in one jerky motion.
Joan's laughter died in her throat. She spoke with trepidation. "What's wrong?" Her voice quavered, eyes already moist. She had been dreading this. "He hurt you again. That friggin' psycho. Is it bad? What did he do?" The answer to the last question frightened her, whatever it might be, but she needed to know.
"No, no," Ruthie said, her tone that of someone correcting a frisky puppy. "That's not what happened, sweetie. This was an accident. I'm stupid -- I lost my balance and fell, and I landed on my side. It really was an accident."
"Don't call yourself stupid, and don't lie for him."
"I'm not ly-"
"Ruthie! He beats you. Just say it!"
Ruthie glanced at the open doorway to the classroom. "That is enough. Go sit down," she said, calm but stern, and right on time. Two students were wandering in. She smiled warmly. "Dorothy, Jen. I love it when y'all get here. You look so cheerful."
"Go away," Joan said to them, before their giddy grins could inflate any further. "We're talking."
The girls stared, taken aback. They sat beside each other and whispered, sneaking looks at Joan after Ruthie made light of the situation and urged them to find their seats. Ten minutes later, the room was full of students, each of whom received a personalized greeting when they entered, and Joan's intervention had flopped like all the others. She channeled her frustration onto her desktop, scratching at the wood with the silver band that connected worn-down eraser to pencil. She didn't realize what she had written until she paused and read "DON SUCKS" in uneven, pointed letters. No.2 graphite didn't hide but emphasized the marks, so she concealed them with a textbook from her bag and leaned her elbow on its cover.
"D'ya hear about the drugs?" Grace said, falling into step with Joan, who had just finished World History, final class of the day.
Joan blinked, surprised by the sudden inquiry and the fact that Grace was talking to her. Ever since the argument about Ruthie, they had kept up the pettiness, their words terse when they did come and almost as cutting when they didn't. It solved nothing, but Joan had felt better at first, having someone to defend Ruthie against. Even if it was the wrong someone. Now, though, Grace's company was sorely missed.
"What drugs?"
"Geez, Girardi. You been walking around in a bubble for the past hour and a half?" Typical Grace. But she was ribbing; that was a good sign. "Some bonehead jock and his trampy girlfriend got into it, and she accused him of having a stash in his locker. So Price went all out. Police, narcotic detection dogs, everything. Didn't find squat. But I bet the whole school will be subject to locker searches tomorrow." She sneered. "Fascists."
"The police were here?"
"Are. There's still a few of them nosing around, I think." Grace halted, refusing to quicken her pace to keep up with Joan's long strides. "Dude, where's the fire?" she called.
"I have to check on something."
"Nice chatting with you too."
"Sorry." Joan glanced back and waved apologetically.
She heard him before she saw him, the deep and, she imagined, venomous tone of his voice easy to recognize because it had haunted her for the past week, a cruel, broken record of insults and curses that doubled in volume in the two hours since Ruthie's telltale gasp, which Joan had spent stewing over, conjuring up the worst of scenarios for. Her hesitation outside the music room was fleeting, a brief stammer of her feet rather than a complete stop, and this time she didn't hold back, didn't have to. He was on her turf now, in a room she frequented, saying God knows what to a woman he wasn't worthy of breathing the same air as, let alone of conversing with.
Joan put her hand on the ajar, heavy wooden door and bulldozed it out of her way. It drifted shut behind her.
"-thought I'd stop in and tell you 'hi,'" Donovan was saying, arms crossed, his hip cocked, holstered gun on display. He looked bigger. Darker.
The indifference on Ruthie's face changed to wide-eyed surprise when she gazed to the right of him and said tightly, unnaturally, "Joan..." No specific punctuation. Just that mixture of fear and pleading at the end, as if she knew where this was headed before Joan herself even knew.
Donovan turned, looked, then continued on like there had been no interruption. "You're done for the day, right? Baby?" He fanned his hand in front of Ruthie's eyes to get her attention. "Ruth Anne."
"Her name is Ruthie," Joan snapped. She went to Ruthie's side and stood where he had to face her, face both of them, or turn away altogether.
"I know what my wife's name is."
My wife. God, how Joan hated that. "Why don't you go do your job and leave her alone?"
"Listen, kid, what I do with my time is none of your damn business. I suggest you butt out and leave us alone."
"Why, so you can smack her around in private? Whoops! Too late, already seen that." Joan hadn't meant to say it, and certainly not in such a crude manner with Ruthie right there, but her adrenaline had kicked in at the sight of him, and all the things she had been saving up, dreaming how and when and what she would tell him if she ever got the chance, were surfacing at once. She felt Ruthie's hand on her arm, squeezing. It didn't hurt, but they were firm, those slender, delicate fingers, and stronger than Joan would have guessed.
"Joan, please-"
Donovan cut Ruthie off. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I saw you hit her that day I was at your house. After I spilled my latte on you. By the way, I take it back. I'm not sorry," Joan said. Childish, maybe. But worth it. "I came down the hall and heard all the crap you were saying. Calling my brother a cripple? Yeah, that's a good one. How clever. And then you just-" She glanced at Ruthie, whose eyes were closed, head lowered, shaking. "Then you just hit her when she wasn't even looking." Joan swallowed hard and glared at Donovan. "What is that about? It's not enough you make, like, three of her, you need to catch her when her guard's down too?"
"Jesus," he muttered, and had the audacity to laugh, though it was more of a smirk with sound. He dropped his arms to his sides and began to pace the length of floor between teacher's and students' desks. "So that's why Girardi kept asking about my wife today. You went crying to your daddy with this bull."
"No," Joan said, as Ruthie looked up questioningly. "I didn't. I swear I didn't."
"Yeah, well, I got news for you, little girl. It don't matter who you tell 'cause it's my word against yours. And nobody's gonna believe a mentally disturbed brat -- yeah, I know all about how crazy you 'used to be.' I didn't find out from her" - He thrust his thumb in Ruthie's direction - "or your daddy, so you can stop pouting. People talk. Nobody'll believe you over a cop. Especially when the cop's wife won't verify your story. Right, Ruth Anne?"
It worried Joan that Ruthie didn't deny it.
"Christ," Donovan said to no one. He stopped pacing and sat down heavily in the middle desk in the front row. Joan's seat. "'Hit her when she wasn't looking.' I hardly touched her. You two are peas in a pod. Can't even lay a fucking finger on her without being treated like I'm some lowlife dirtbag on the street, gonna drag her into an alley and rape her."
Ruthie made a soft, disgusted noise, pushing air up through her throat.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said mockingly. "Does that offend you? Think how it makes me feel."
"Nobody gives a crap how you feel." Joan wished he would glance at the slat of wood beneath his arm and see what she had written about him.
"I'm getting really sick of your mouth." Donovan slapped his hands against the desktop and got to his feet. He pointed at Joan. "One of these days it's gonna get your ass kicked."
"By you? Go ahead. Crazy girls bruise too."
Ruthie jostled past Joan and stood in Donovan's path as he moved forward. He stopped just short of running into her, but she did not back up. "Don, you're acting like a fool. She is a child, not to mention the daughter of someone you work with. For once," she said, emphasizing both words, "consider what you're doing."
He lowered his face close to hers, squinting meanly. "You got some nerve siding with her and calling me a fool," he said, taking Ruthie by the head, palms flat against her ears, and giving the slightest of jerks.
Joan's heart fluttered. One wrong move...
"Ah, shit," Donovan said. "Neither of you are worth it." He let go of Ruthie but only for a second, quickly clamping hold of her wrist like it meant to escape him. He yanked even though she wasn't fighting him. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car. Too many crackpots around here."
What a gentleman!, Joan wanted to yell. But there was such sadness in Ruthie's eyes when she turned for a departing look, such deep despair. The man who seemed to literally hold her life in his hands didn't look back at all. Joan waited till the door latched shut, then she picked up the nearest item, the Sharpie she and Ruthie had played with earlier, and heaved it with every bit of strength she could muster. It clattered to the floor and so did she, sitting, her book bag going thwump as it hit the tiles. She let her shoulders sag, and then her backbone, until she was hunched over with her elbows on her knees and her hair sweeping the ground.
"Help me, God," she whispered tearfully. "I don't know what to do."