The Death of Ruth by Elizabeth Kata Read Free Book Online Page B

to John and began to hug and kiss him and Rob began to explain to Ralph that, if he could buy a truck—he knew exactly the one he wanted—he would give up his clerking job and go into business for himself.
    John was filling his pipe and his hands shook with nervous tension. I loved him dearly, my heart ached for him, but my voice was cold, as I said, ‘It’s no use talking about buying a truck, Rob. The cold fact is that people can only sell that which belongs to them and this house belongs to me. This property is legally in my name. It belongs to Mary Heather Blake, and I am not selling it …’
    The evening had been a dreadful one—especially for John—and this morning, as I watched him trudging along towards the bus stop I wept bitterly. Then, after he had turned the corner I walked briskly through the house—I never drag my leg when alone—and I noticed that John had not washed up his breakfast dishes as has become his habit, and that he had not finished drinking his much loved coffee.
    I felt the coffee pot, it was still hot so I poured myself a mug of coffee and carried it out to my garden. I intended to begin building up about the camellia bushes, for the ground has sunk again, quite a bit. Over the years I had harvested loads of rock and soil from the vacant land beside us. Now I am concerned knowing that soon that supply route will be lost to me.
    How were my weeds coming along? Not a weed to be seen! I have bad luck with weeds. Everything flourishes in my garden, except weeds, and yes, in a way, the camellias,for although the bushes are sturdy and covered with glistening leaves, no flowers ever come into bloom. Always when the seasons for camellia flowers arrive I arise at dawn every day, and going to the garden, I pinch off the small, hard buds. I am fanatical about the matter. Never, never, could I endure seeing flowers bloom on
those
bushes.
    This morning, after loading my hand-cart with rocks, I trundled it across the lawn, pleased to see how the wheels scarred and tore at the grass. Later on I will be able to fill in time by attending to the damage I was intentionally causing. Sometimes, to create work for myself, I perform remarkable acts of vandalism. I wish that the garden were twice its size.
    I have decided to break up the present rock-garden, completely, and build it again from scratch. It will take some time. A week? Ten days maybe? Or, if I remember to go slowly, even longer.
    I like working in this spot, by the rock-garden, because here I can talk to Ruth. She and I had never been close, not really, for it had been she who had always done the talking, telling me of her troubles and airing her complaints. I, not having had troubles in those far-off days, or any complaints to make, had no need to talk, but, now, ah, these days
I
have all the troubles and I am full of complaints and Ruth hears them all.
    This morning I told her how I had witnessed the breaking up of a man’s dreams, of how I had torn away every shred of pride and hope that John possessed.
    When I had dropped the bombshell, about my owning and not being willing to sell our property, John had eventually cried out, half laughingly, ‘Hey, hey, hold everything! Certainly the house was put solely in your name, Molly, because, and
only because
, I care for you. Because with the house legally in your name and if I died before you, then you would be left better off.’
    John had continued on, at first calmly, then angrily, thenfuriously. Then with great kindness, then, like a beggar, he implored me to give in, to change my mind.
    I sat listening to him, my face expressionless, but every word he spoke cut deep. Finally, I replied calmly, saying, ‘John, the law is the law. The house is legally in my name. I am not stupid. I know as well as you do how it
came
into my possession. Why go on about it? I will never part with it. Please stop worrying and pestering me.’
    Then I had picked up my