Healing Ruby: A Novel Read online

  Healing

  Ruby

  A Novel

  Jennifer H. Westall

  Synposis

  Ruby Graves, a young girl in Depression-era Alabama, faces the hardships of poverty and loss with as much faith as she can muster. At only thirteen she’s already lost a younger brother, and now faces losing both her father and the boy who’s stealing her heart as well. Armed with her beloved Scriptures, she prays daily for their healing, only to have her tender faith shattered.

  Through her pain, she’s able to connect with her long-lost Uncle Asa, whose mere presence at his brother’s funeral brings murmurs of a scandalous past involving her parents and a prominent local pastor. When Ruby discovers that one of Asa’s many secrets is an ability to heal, and that she may be next in line for the “gift,” she vows to find the faith that has eluded her so far--a faith that could mean never losing loved ones again.

  But according to her father, faith and doubt can’t reside in the same heart, and doubt is Ruby’s constant companion. As she struggles to find the true meaning of faith, she’s opposed at every turn by the pastor who would see her family destroyed and a community that can’t see deeper than the color of one’s skin. Through her search for a faith that could move mountains and a true understanding of her gift, can Ruby trust in a God that may require the ultimate sacrifice?

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  To my grandmother, Ruby

  And now these three remain:

  faith, hope, and love.

  But the greatest of these is love.

  ―1 Corinthians 13:13

  Prologue

  I never meant to hurt anyone. It was the last thing I ever wanted to do, but in moments that pass by quicker than lightning, things just happened. That seemed to be the story of my life. Things happened before I could stop them, before I even understood what was happening. Sometimes it was my eagerness that got me into trouble—like when I’d have to help Mother with canning all the vegetables, but all I could think about was getting out of that hot kitchen, sneaking down to the creek, and burying myself in the cold water. But most times, what got me in trouble was just plain anger.

  Like the time when I was ten, and Henry was harassing me again, and I was sick of him that day. I never understood what was so much fun about picking on girls, but that seemed to be the favorite pastime of both my brothers. Seemed to me that teenage boys could find plenty else to occupy their time with, and it would make me madder than a hornet. Maybe that was why they did it.

  We weren’t poor back then, back before stock crashes and poverty stole the life out of folks. But we weren’t like the Doyles either—we didn’t have a housekeeper to clean up after us—and since I was the only girl, I got stuck with washing the dishes after dinner every Sunday while the boys got to run off to do heaven knows what with heaven knows who. Henry should’ve just left me alone. But he never could pass up a chance to needle me, and he slapped my behind as he dropped his plate into the washtub. I must’ve gotten madder than I ever had before, cause I don’t exactly remember deciding to do it, but the next thing I knew, the knife in my hand went sailing through the air and landed in Henry’s neck.

  What happened after that’s still a blur. I was as horrified as Henry was, and we both stood there staring at each other in shock. I couldn’t even remember throwing that knife across the room. But there he stood a few feet away from me, a trickle of blood running down his neck and seeping into the collar of his Sunday shirt. I remember thinking that Mother would have a time getting that stain out on the washboard. She’d complain about her knuckles getting raw.

  Henry pulled the knife out, and blood shot out of him. It hit Mother’s tablecloth, the white one with the lace around the bottom that Grandma Kellum had made for a wedding present. It hit the wall and the doorframe where Henry stood. He stared at it kind of wide-eyed for a moment. Then just as Daddy came back in the room, Henry sank to the floor.

  Something lit a fire under my feet, and I was beside him in a second. Like I said, it all seemed to happen in a haze of confusion and regret, but I remember the dark red liquid spreading through the dishtowel in my hands as I pressed down on Henry’s neck. I remember Daddy rushing over, calling for Mother and hollering at Henry that he’d be all right. I remember the look on Daddy’s face when he yelled at James to go for Dr. Fisher—his skin pale, his eyes wide and accusing. I’d only seen him look scared once before—the night little Charlie died from the Spanish flu—and it about did me in to think I’d be responsible for him losing another son.

  Mother came beside me, shoving me out of the way. Her hands were strong and quick; she moved my dishrag away and looked at Henry’s wound, never once grimacing. She put a clean cloth over it and grabbed my hands, pressing them down on Henry’s neck and looking at me with blazing eyes that shot right through me.

  “Press hard. Don’t move.” Then she stood and pulled Daddy up with her. “Abner, it’s bad. Real bad.”

  Henry’s eyes drifted slowly to look up at me, and I wondered what he was thinking. I hated for him to be mad at me. As much as I hated his picking on me, I loved him fierce—almost as much as Daddy. Henry could make you smile in a second, no matter what had you in a mess. I loved both my brothers, but he was the one that really knew me, the one who liked playing with me. I couldn’t stand the thought that I’d hurt him.

  “Henry?” I whispered. “You all right?”

  At that moment I heard the panic in Mother’s voice as it got louder. “I know it’s been a long time, but can’t you remember how—”

  “No,” Daddy bellowed. “I can’t do that. I never could, and you know it.”

  “But you were there!” she yelled. “You saw everything!” Mother never raised her voice, so I had no idea what to think. Daddy looked taken aback too. He glared at her, then down at Henry, and then he looked at her again. This time the fear seemed more like anger.

  “Listen here, even if I knew how, I wouldn’t bring that blasphemy into my house!”

  Daddy bent over Henry and lifted him into his arms. He carried him into their bedroom and laid Henry across the bed. Mother followed with her shoulders bent forward like she was ready to tackle Daddy. He turned to her and caught her before she could lay into him.

  “Now, Lizzy, there ain’t nothing I can do. Not like you’s wanting right now. James’ll fetch Dr. Fisher, and you and I are gonna do everything we can. The Lord’ll take care a Henry. Now stop fretting over something I can’t control, and do what you can for him.”

  Mother looked like she might fall over, but then her whole body stiffened. She went to Henry’s head and checked the rags. Then she knelt beside the bed and started praying. Daddy turned to me, and right then I saw that he knew I’d done this. My stomach turned, and I thought I might lose my lunch right there.

  “Ruby,” he said. “How’d this happen?”

  I coul
dn’t take him looking at me like that, like he didn’t even know who I was. All I could do was turn and run. So I did. I ran out the door and into the woods as far as my legs would carry me. I tripped and fell a couple of times, but it was the third fall that finally did me in. I had nothing left inside me. All I could do was lay on the ground, my tears mixing with the dirt and leaves, praying God would forgive me and let Henry live. I promised I’d never lose my temper again, and I’d do everything in my power to keep the people I loved from pain. I promised Him that I’d do anything He ever wanted from me…ever. He just couldn’t take Henry.

  Sometimes I still remember that day in a dream, and I wonder how much of it really happened, and how much of my memory my dreams have changed. It’s hard to know. Now, when I remember that day, it’s not the memory of Henry lying on the floor, or Mother scrubbing up blood for hours, or even the relief I felt when Henry was all right that my mind sits on. Instead, I think about all the ruckus going on around us that day, about all the promises I made to God to save Henry, and not even realizing that Daddy was already sick.

  Chapter One

  The world stopped turning for a lot of folks in October of 1929, but not for me. I heard Daddy and Mother talking about the stock market diving and times getting hard, and it sounded serious enough, but life in the rural parts of northern Alabama had been tough for some time. It didn’t make much difference for us, even well into the next year. I kept getting up every morning to the same breakfast of ham, eggs, and biscuits and gravy; a regular day of school; and an afternoon of chores. Besides, Daddy said maybe this mess would wake the rest of the country up to what the farmers already knew. Life is precarious.

  It was about the fall of ‘30, when I was thirteen, I started to notice that Daddy didn’t look right. He owned the cotton gin in Hanceville, Alabama, a nice little town down the road a piece from Cullman, and he’d been coming home from work earlier and earlier with his whole body sagging off the bones. Even with the ginning season winding down, he seemed more tired than he should have. He’d eat half the amount of supper he used to, and after dinner he’d sit back in his chair by the fire and doze off just after dark. Mother would come along and help him to bed, and seeing him look so weak started to worry me.

  But morning would come again, and he’d have a fire lit, the cow milked, and his Bible read before I even thought about leaving the warmth of my bed. I’d sit at his feet in front of the fire and ask him what he was reading. By that time I was too big to sit in his lap, but he’d reach down with his big leathery hand and pet my hair while he read out loud. I’d listen to his deep voice and imagine God himself was speaking to me.

  By the end of November, I noticed some more differences. He didn’t play with me anymore, didn’t rough house or play ball in the yard with my brothers, and one morning when I got up, Mother was the one coming in the door with the milk pail while Daddy’s snores still rattled around in their bedroom. When I asked if Daddy was all right, she nodded and went about her business in the kitchen.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I took over frying the bacon so Mother could concentrate on making biscuits. We didn’t say much at first, which wasn’t altogether unusual for us. The only talking we managed in the mornings was complaining or commanding. I guess it wouldn’t be hard to figure out which of us did the complaining, and which one did the commanding.

  But that morning, I didn’t complain. Mother looked especially tired, and her eyes were red around the edges. I took up the last of the bacon and put it on the table as James and Henry came trudging in from the barn smelling like they’d wallowed around with the pigs instead of feeding them. I pinched my nose and shook my head at them.

  “Ya’ll aren’t going out in public smelling like that are you?”

  James tugged a strand of my hair—they’d both learned not to swat my rear—and grabbed a biscuit off the stove. “What? Poor lil’ Ruby worried we’ll embarrass her in front a her friends?”

  Henry laughed with him. “Maybe it’s you that don’t smell good, Rubes. C’mere and let’s see.”

  I wasn’t about to get near either one of them. “I don’t want to smell like some pig. You better wash up before you eat.”

  I looked over at Mother as she set the rest of the food on the table, expecting some support. After all, she was the one who insisted everyone get clean before they touched the food. But she didn’t say anything. In fact, she looked like she was off in another world.

  There was a muffled thud from the bedroom, which I figured was Daddy’s feet hitting the floor. James and Henry must have too, cause they sobered up right quick. They headed out the back door, and next thing I heard was the sloshing of water against their faces. I waited for Daddy to come on out and eat, but he never did. A couple of minutes passed, and I heard the bed squeak. Mother put four plates on the table and slid through the bedroom door, closing it behind her.

  I crossed the dog run that separated the main house from the bedroom I shared with my brothers. I went to my side to gather my school things. Then I returned to the kitchen and put a biscuit and some honey in a lunch pail to take with me. With no one around, I sneaked in an extra bit of honey. As I sat down to breakfast, Mother came out of the bedroom, and the boys came in the back door. We all sat around kind of quiet at first, and it felt like ghosts were sitting at the table with us or something. Finally James spoke up.

  “Daddy’s supposed to meet with Mr. Scott at the gin today. Does he want me to handle it?”

  “No,” Mother said. “He’s determined to make it. But you’ll need to take over some work around here today, so come on back as soon as you finish whatever your daddy wants done at the gin. The wood pile needs plenty more wood.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And that was it. Daddy never came out to wish me a good day, and somehow I knew not to disturb him.

  When Henry and I got home from school that afternoon, Dr. Fisher was talking with Mother in the living room. Just the sight of him sent a shiver down my spine and the memory of Charlie’s last night on this earth through my mind. I felt my breath catch, but then his large, white mustache lifted into a smile. Surely he wouldn’t be smiling if something serious was wrong with Daddy, so it set me at ease, and I smiled back.

  “Hi there, Miss Ruby,” he said, tipping his hat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of butterscotch. I grabbed it from his hand, trying not to seem too eager. He turned to Henry and shook his hand like a man while he pat him on the back.

  “Henry! How’s the basketball team shaping up? Ya’ll ready for the game tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. Them boys from Cullman won’t know what hit ‘em.”

  Henry smiled and walked over to Mother, kissing her on the cheek. She held onto him longer than usual, and it looked like she might cry. That sent my stomach knotting up. I looked at Dr. Fisher again. Maybe I’d been wrong. But before I could figure anything out, Mother started throwing out her usual orders.

  “Ya’ll get started on your chores if you expect to make it to the game tonight. Ruby, I need you to finish up the floors for me while I speak with Dr. Fisher outside.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I put my things in my room then went to the kitchen where the mop waited for me. As I worked my way across the floor toward the table, I could see Mother and Dr. Fisher talking on the porch through the window. Mother put her palms to her eyes and shook her head. I worked my way a little closer to the window where I could make out some of Dr. Fisher’s words—something about Daddy’s feet getting worse and how she’d have to convince him to eat better. Mother threw her hands out to the side and groaned.

  “We’ve tried everything you suggested. I don’t know what else to do.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s tough, but it’s time to face the reality that he’s going to lose that foot. Maybe both of them.”

  Mother turned away from me, so I couldn’t hear what she was saying. I pushed my ear closer to the window.

>   “What are you doing?” The deep voice startled me, and I whipped around to find Daddy leaning his huge frame against one of the chairs at the table, his dark eyebrows pinched together into that look that usually meant I was in big trouble.

  “I was just cleaning,” I said.

  “Cleaning, huh? Since when do you clean windows with your ears?”

  He gave me the look a bit longer, but then he sighed and pulled out the chair. He fell into it like his own body weighed more than he could handle; then he slapped his thigh.

  “C’mere.”

  I thought for a second I was about to get a whipping, and he must have seen my eyes widen cause he let out one of his big laughs and scratched his beard.

  “C’mon,” he said. “You ain’t in trouble, baby girl.”

  “Aren’t,” I said, trying to hide my grin. “And I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  He continued to smile, but he looked at me different, like he was remembering me instead of seeing me. “Just like your mother. Can’t let a man talk like he wants to. But I guess you’re right. You aren’t a little girl anymore. So how about taking a seat and talking with me like a grown up?”

  I slid onto the bench nearest me and waited for him to say something. We must have sat like that for a full minute. I laced my hands together on top of the table and looked out the window.

  “So how was school today?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  “You staying out of trouble?”

  “Best I can.”

  He nodded toward the window and the front porch where I could still barely hear the voices of Mother and Dr. Fisher. “Don’t go worrying yourself over things you can’t control, Ruby.”

  I looked at him then, looked deep into those blue eyes that made me laugh nearly every day. “Daddy, are you sick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to lose your foot?”

  “Yes.”